


Homecoming

by caffeineivore



Category: Bishoujo Senshi Sailor Moon | Pretty Guardian Sailor Moon
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Study, Established Relationship, F/M, Father-Daughter Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Light Angst, Minor Original Character(s), Multi, Other, Parent-Child Relationship, Redemption, charlie is chaotic evil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-12-24 21:40:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21106433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caffeineivore/pseuds/caffeineivore
Summary: It starts with missed calls from an area code she'd not thought about for ten years. The last time Rosemary spoke to her father, he'd kicked her out of his house. A decade later, she'd established a whole new life in another state, with a stable job and a loving husband. And then she gets a summons which takes her back to the place and time where everything went wrong. Can you actually go home again? Sailor Moon AU. R/J with mentions of other senshi/shitennou 'ships. Written for the senshi/shitennou minibang.





	Homecoming

**Author's Note:**

  * For [i1976_blu_notte](https://archiveofourown.org/users/i1976_blu_notte/gifts).

> Final fic for this year's senshi/shitennou minibang! First I must credit my amazing artist, i1976_blu_notte, for the beautiful pieces you see in this piece. Also I must credit CharlieChaplin2 for being CHAOTIC EVIL and conning me into writing this to begin with. Finally I must credit my beta, Satine86, for all the help with plotting and proofreading. Please check out all the works in this year's fantastic collection and leave comments for the writers/artists!!!

It had started six weeks before the letter had come in the mail. The same unknown phone number from a 617 area code had attempted to make contact with her on four different occasions, but there’s no real good reason for it. Rosemary, deep in the teeth of tax season, had not bothered either answering or returning the calls. The last time she’d spoken to anyone from that side of the country had been ten years ago, and that decision had been cold-bloodedly mutual. There is no reason that anyone from that portion of her past would be contacting her now; she certainly lives the sort of life which would not even register on anyone’s radar. So she ignores it, tamps down on the odd moment of curiosity, and mid-April passes in a blur of W2’s and 1099’s and a lot of black coffee.

The letter comes through certified mail, in a document mailer with a return address from the Beacon Hill area of that historic city. Rosemary signs the slip handed to her by the postal worker, and takes the envelope inside amidst the usual stack of bills, ads, and coupons from the local grocery and drug stores. Jaden isn’t home yet; there’s a baseball game that evening-- OPRF against Downers North, and she grabs an apple from the basket on the kitchen counter to tide her over until dinner as she opens the envelope.

The first thing she sees is a police report, with its tiny letters and rows upon rows of checkboxes. Car accident, head-on collision on Beacon Street close to Fenway Park, involving a silver BMW X5 and a red Dodge Durango. Date and time of April 14th, 2019, 4:39 PM. Drivers involved were a Thomas Hawthorne and a Brandon Riley. She drops the paper with a sinking feeling, and it flutters, a balefully white moth, before landing on the floor. There’s another stack of papers from Massachusetts General Hospital, and at the very bottom is a sheet of heavyweight letter paper, the expensive cream-coloured variety meant for fountain pen signatures and a monogrammed address on the top. It’s from Reginald Keaton III, Chief of Staff of the Massachusetts Governor, but almost shockingly brief and informal in its words.

_Rose,_

_I know that you have no intention of returning to Boston, and a part of me cannot blame you for it. But your father has been involved in a serious car accident and has been asking for you since he came out of the coma. Please don’t hate me-- I’m just the messenger._

_Please come. I’ll set up plane tickets and accommodations as soon as you send the word. _

_Yours,  
Reg_

She’s still seated at the kitchen table, catatonically poring over the medical reports in a fog of numb incomprehension, a red apple with one bite taken out of it turning brown on the table and a package of boneless chicken breasts still sitting in a bowl of cold water in the sink when Jaden walks in, bringing in the smell of Coca Cola and cut grass. His eyes are warm and soft, the blue of a summer sky, but his smile fades when he sees her face. He lays both hands on her shoulders, and the weight of them breaks through the haze enough that she startles and looks up. It’s almost nine in the evening, and neither of them have had dinner, and he only spares the now-waterlogged chicken a single glance before picking up his phone, dialing by memory while keeping his gaze fixed on her face.

“I’m calling in pizza. What’s wrong?”

Rosemary nods at the papers on the table, and Jaden slides them over, picks up the note first and foremost. His eyebrows furrow, but he says nothing as he grimly picks up the police report that had fallen on the floor and reads through it next. He has just finished reading through the stack when their pizza arrives, and not even the sight and smell of fragrant steam curling up from velvety red sauce flecked with parmesan and basil is enough to break the deafening silence from Rosemary’s corner. Jaden cuts slices with a practiced hand, sliding one over to her before serving himself, and then he takes a deep breath before speaking.

“You should go as soon as possible. Take the time off, then go on ahead. I’ll join you as soon as school’s out in June.”

His voice is even and matter-of-fact, as though he’s certain of what he’s saying, and it strikes Rosemary as ironic, almost startles a laugh out of her. “You-- you don’t know my father.”

“I know.” There is a world of understanding in those beautiful blue eyes, and the smile that he gives her is warm with the most everlasting and steadfast type of love. “But you need to go. You know you’ll never rest easily until you do. And… considering we’ve been together for six years now and married for two, don’t you think it’s about time I finally meet him? I think we missed a step where he gets to threaten me with bodily harm if I had dishonourable intentions.”

Rosemary doesn’t know what to say to that, exactly, because the last time she’d spoken to her father, she’d not even met Jaden yet. She’d never been in a relationship serious enough to even register on Thomas Hawthorne’s radar before things had gone so drastically south, and couldn’t even state with any certainty how her father would have reacted to the idea of a boyfriend, let alone a husband for his only child. Thomas is a name from the past, a nebulous, somewhat malevolent presence buried deep in a dark closet never to see the light of day. And yet now he’s here, yanked out in the open with the sort of brutal finality of a phantom hand ripping a bandage off a festering wound.

Rosemary mechanically takes a bite out of her slice of pizza and winces as the scalding hot tomato sauce burns her tongue, but it matches her emotional state. Boston is a cesspool of long-lost baggage and a life that can only tangentially be considered hers, but as soon as it’s out in the open, she can all but see it-- the trim and traditional Federal-style house with its red-brick facade and bright green hedges, the mahogany-and-leather study where she and her father had had their last blow-out argument, the smell of buffed floor wax and lemon oil underneath her heels as she’d stalked out of the house without a backward glance. Keaton had included a photograph amidst the reports from Massachusetts General-- a graphic, bloody-awful thing, and Rosemary can barely recognize the man in the picture from the picture she has in her head. He’s a lot smaller, somehow, blood smearing his lips, hair thin and translucent white against the backdrop of the gurney. She knows, as Jaden does, that she’ll have to make that phone call. Face up, at long last, to the decade-old demons.

She finishes the slice of pizza, and as Jaden efficiently cleans up the mess, dials the unknown 617 number in her call log. Indeed, Reginald answers on the first ring, and she doesn’t quite know how she keeps her voice steady even though it sounds like it’s coming from a far corner of the room rather than anywhere in the vicinity of her mouth.

“Rose. It’s good to hear from you.”

“Is it?” She had, in her early teens, considered the young, affable Reginald Keaton something akin to a confidant before realizing that ambition and not friendship ruled his actions and motives. “How would I know that, truly?”

The voice on the line pauses, as though taken aback, but Reginald sighs, and Rosemary can almost see him pinching the bridge of his nose above his trendy wire-framed glasses, as he always had done whenever faced with the task of having an unpleasant conversation. “You don’t, I suppose. It doesn’t matter what you think of me, or of him. All I need to know is when you’ll be coming, so I can send you a plane ticket and have Phoebe get your old room ready for you. She’s not changed a thing in there.”

“I’ll have to square things with work, first. I can’t just leave whenever I feel like it. Shockingly, the world doesn’t revolve around Thomas Hawthorne, whatever you might think.”

“I’ll make sure you’re compensated for any lost pay, and contact your employer myself if necessary.”

“I don’t need you to run my life, Reg. Not that you’ve ever had that privilege, but you’ve certainly lost it ten years ago if you had. A week, earliest.”

“Done.” There is the tell-tale click-clack of computer keys, and a few moments later, her cell phone vibrates at her ear with a notification. “Flight will be leaving O’Hare a week from this Sunday, boarding at 10:19 AM local time, American Airlines, First Class service non-stop to Logan. I’ll make sure you get picked up from the airport.”

“Fine.” Rosemary glances up at where Jaden is disposing of her barely-touched apple into the kitchen trash, then turns her attention back to the phone call. “I’ll need another ticket sometime after the 14th of June for a Jaden Irving. My husband teaches math at the local high school and won’t be free until the semester ends.”

There is another pause on the other end of the line, but Reginald recovers quickly enough. “Thomas will look forward to meeting him, I’m sure.”

“If you say so.” Rosemary attempts to go for nonchalant skepticism, but her voice sounds weaker than she’d like. Reginald, as befits a savvy political type who has clearly benefited or at least learned something about discretion since ten years ago, doesn’t mention it, and the click-clacking of the computer continues in the background.

“All right, Rose. All settled. His flight is booked for June 16th, boarding at 2:17 PM local time. American Airlines, First class service from O’Hare to Logan. I will send you the itinerary for him as well.” Her phone vibrates again as he does so, and Reginald clears his throat. “There you go.”

“So we’re done here?” She knows that she sounds abrupt, but it’s hard to try for tact when she can’t even settle on one single emotion. She senses, rather than sees, Jaden coming up behind her, a moment before his hands land warmly and soothingly on her shoulders, rubbing them for a moment before sinking into her hair. She’s tense, more than she would have thought, and the gentle touch almost breaks her before she hangs up, but she’s almost certain Reginald can’t hear the hitch in her breath.

“I suppose. I’ll arrange for you to get picked up from the airport when you arrive. Flight notifications are being sent to my phone directly so that I’ll know if there are any delays. And, Rose… for what it’s worth, coming from me, please don’t hate him any more.”

She hangs up before she can retort that it’s worth nothing, less than nothing coming from him. Or that it’s a tall order, asking her not to hate Thomas Hawthorne any more, after the blow-out argument all those years back, all the hurtful things that no father, in her mind, should ever say to a daughter. But she finds herself fighting back tears instead when her eyes land on that photograph from the hospital, the very indignity of seeing him in that pale blue patterned hospital gown. Even on the weekends on the golf course for as long as she could remember, her father had never been less than fully turned out in neatly pressed trousers and spotless polo shirts. Jaden brushes his fingers through her hair again, then presses a kiss to the top of her head.

“Well, we did talk about going somewhere for summer vacation. And, you know, I was going to have to meet your dad, eventually.”

Rosemary lets out a brittle, almost-watery chuckle. “You’ll get your wish, but be careful of what you wish for.”

**

_Our Thyme_ is a trendy little bistro in the hip Chicago neighbourhood of Logan Square, specializing in fresh, seasonal farm-to-table dinners and a scrumptious weekend brunch selection which would pass muster with even the most persnickety of the Ladies Who Lunch set. Rosemary always makes a point to visit whenever she comes into the city, not only for the ever-changing-but-never-disappointing daily selections but to get the chance to talk to the owner, Monica Keller, her best friend from college. Now, especially, with the trip back to Boston looming up ahead like a grim storm cloud on the horizon, the presence of a sympathetic listening ear-- and one who knew the whole story, at that-- was more than worth the drive through Chicago traffic and the outrageous parking fees in the city.

The bistro is, as befits the character of the neighbourhood, a tiny hole in the wall place, completely non-descript from the exterior amidst a busy but tree-lined pedestrian street. Its sign is lettered in old gold against a forest green plaque, and twin bronze wind-chimes shaped like falling leaves dangle musically by the door. There’s only a scattering of small tables inside, adorned with seasonal flowers in old glass bottles in all shades of green and blue, and the daily specials are written on a chalkboard by the counter. The hostess, who recognizes Rosemary right away, smiles and gestures her towards her usual table by the window. “Monica’s prepping stock for tomorrow in the back. I’ll go grab her. What will you be having today?”

“A cup of iced tea and… what’s good today?”

“She’s got a pretty damn good lake perch fish and chips-- fresh-caught off the lake, brown ale batter and salt-and-vinegar potato wedges with a garlic paprika aioli on the side as well as the traditional brown sauce. If that seems a bit heavy for you, the angel-hair pasta with arugula pesto and bay scallops is delicious.”

“It sounds delightful, but I think I’m going to have to carb-load. Comfort food is definitely in order.”

“Fish and chips it is, then. Extra chips.”

“Perfect.” The girl bustles off, and before she can even return with Rosemary’s iced tea, Monica comes striding out of the kitchen, bringing with her the smell of buttered bread and summery fresh herbs. There’s a smudge of flour on her right cheek and her sleeves are rolled up to reveal muscular forearms. She crosses the distance between the pass-through and Rosemary’s table in all of four strides, and grins down at her from the impressive height of five-eleven-in-her-work-shoes.

“I heard something about carb-loading. Tax season was that bad this year, huh? No worries. I have a box of lemon lavender poppy-seed muffins with your name on it in the back so you and the hubby can continue carb-loading later.”

“If it were only tax season,” Rosemary sighs, and certainly, Monica gleans the gravity of the situation before Rosemary can say another word, and retreats back to the kitchen at a brisk clip. She returns a few minutes later not only with Rosemary’s food, but a slice of something liberally topped with chocolate ganache and whipped cream.

“All right. They’re okay back there for a bit. You look like you needed something more than just carbs, so… chocolate. Spill.”

“Someday, Monica, I will be morbidly obese and diabetic, and it will be 100% your fault.” Instead of going into all the details, Rosemary pulls out the much-folded copy of the police report from Boston out of her purse and slides it across the table. Monica’s auburn eyebrows knit together as she reads it, and then she lets out a long, slow whistle.

“Is he okay?”

Rosemary lets out a brittle laugh. “I’m flying out there tomorrow. But from the initial reports, probably not. Guy in an SUV went the wrong way down the street after having a few beers too many at the Red Sox game, so from all accounts, he’s lucky to be alive. As I understand it, they put him in a medically induced coma for a while just to stabilise him, and he’s only just come to.”

“And he’s asking for you.” Monica, who’d grown up in the gritty streets of the South Side, doesn’t mince any words. Rosemary had not known her before they’d dormed together at Northwestern, where Monica had matriculated on an athletic scholarship and served for one year as a star pitcher for the Wildcats’ Softball Team before she’d sustained a torn ACL during a Big Ten Conference game. In the fallout and uncertainty following, it had been Rosemary who’d intervened, acting on impulse and a conviction that her somewhat brash but surprisingly sweet friend, who would never have had the financial means to finish school on her own, deserved better than to have her chance snuffed out almost as soon as it had begun.

The money had been set aside for her in a trust fund, made available to her after her eighteenth birthday with the stipulation that she put it towards educational goals. It had not been used at the time; Rosemary’s father had grudgingly paid for room and board after she’d announced that Northwestern had given her enough on an academic scholarship to cover tuition. There had been no caveats stating whose educational goals the fund must go for, and though Monica had protested vigorously, Rosemary had marched straight into the registrar’s office a week after that fateful game with a stubborn set to her chin and a signed Cashier’s check. Once Thomas Hawthorne had gotten wind of what she’d done, he’d been furious.

“His last words to me were that he had not raised me to be a thief and a bleeding heart idiot, taken in for a fool by some crackhead welfare case, and that if I didn’t ‘make it right’, I could walk out of that house and never come back. I haven’t been back since.” Rosemary objectively knows that the starchy, flaky fish and chips she’s eating is moreish and comforting in the best way, but she can barely taste it. “I have to go, of course. Just on the principle that whatever he might think of me, forsaking a parent who’d almost died is morally reprehensible. It doesn’t mean that I forgive him, though. He had no right to say those things about either of us, or throw me out. The money was mine to do as I pleased.” Rosemary washes down fried food that is suddenly dry in her mouth with a swallow of cold, unsweetened iced tea. “I have built a life out here. I have a career, and a home, and a husband that I love. It wasn’t supposed to go all to Hell.”

“And you still have all of those things, honey.” Monica, who’d attempted on multiple occasions to pay her back after opening up her restaurant only to be flatly refused, smiles wryly across the table. “This is his chance, maybe his only one, to make amends. You owe it to both of you to at least hear him out.”

“Well. I’m going, aren’t I?” Rosemary’s voice is a little truculent as she digs her dessert fork into the chocolate-whipped-cream confection. “Aren’t you mad at all over all the crap he said about you?”

“Sure. That’s all super uncool and untrue and dickish, but that’s not the point.” Monica leans back in her chair, and though she is and will always be the same tall, buxom Amazon who’d taught the far-more-sheltered Rosemary how to change a tire and scramble eggs, there’s a surprising hint of vulnerability in her forthright green eyes. “The point is, as you well know it, he’s still your dad. At least you have one. Take this chance, Rosy-Posy. You never know when any given chance is the last one, and then, if you’ve missed it, you’ll be waking up in the middle of the night for the rest of your life regretting it.” She stands, and smiles down at Rosemary. “I’ve got to go and make sure that they’re not back there burning the damned soup. Betsy will have your muffins brought to your table.”

“Along with my check?” Rosemary says drily.

“Aww, that’s cute. Hardy-har-har. You got jokes, huh?” On that quip, Monica disappears back into the kitchen, and as promised, the waitress appears a few moments later with an iced tea in a to-go cup and a box of muffins. Rosemary thanks the girl, leaves a cash tip on the table on the principle of the thing, and makes the trip home with more on her mind rather than less, surrounded by the sharp scents of lemon and apprehension. Tomorrow would pull the past into the present, whether or not any of them were ready for it.

She could only hope that history would not repeat itself.

**

The flight itself is uneventful, and takes just a little more than two hours. Rosemary sends Jaden and Monica a quick text to let them know that she’s landed, and heads off towards the direction of baggage claim. Her phone rings just as she’s pulling her bag off the carousel, and it’s Reginald, right on cue. Rosemary sets her suitcase on the cart and shoulders her purse after fishing the phone out of her pocket. “Yes, I’ve landed. Who do you have coming to get me?”

“Good afternoon, Rose. I’m actually outside, with Susan and the girls, and we’re pulling up to the domestic arrivals doors now. I’ll pull the Range up to the door and meet you.”

Rosemary raises her eyebrows at that, though Reginald is not there to see. Certainly she would not have expected him to come out himself, and not with his whole family in tow. But perhaps he’s canny enough to realise that it wouldn’t be well done of him to send out a minion on a task such as this. She sees the spotlessly white Range Rover as it pulls up to the curb, and Reginald steps out of the driver’s side door even as the trunk opens up in the back.

He’d always been a handsome man, with the perfectly even white teeth and well-groomed hair and nails of a born-and-bred politician, and though there’s some grey at his temples and some lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth now, he doesn’t seem to have changed much at all in the ten years since she’d seen him last. He’s wearing Sunday service best, a navy blue blazer over a white shirt and polished wing-tips peeking out from underneath perfectly pressed chinos, and he holds out a hand for her to shake. Rosemary does, briefly, then holds out her suitcase as soon as he relinquishes his grip.

“You’re looking well, Rose. I’m glad the flight arrived on time. We just left church, and usually we head out for a late lunch after. I hope you don’t mind joining us at Boston Burger.”

It’s perhaps not the place she would have expected Reginald to name, but Rosemary keeps that thought to herself. “That’s fine.”

He efficiently puts her bags in the trunk, then pulls the backseat door open for her, the quintessential well-bred gentleman, and Rosemary finds herself face to face with two little girls, one blonde and one brunette, wearing matching dresses and expressions of curiosity.

The older of the two girls grins after a moment, though. “Who’s that, daddy?”

“That’s Uncle Tommy’s daughter, Auntie Rose. Can you say hi?”

“Hi, Auntie Rose!” Both girls chorus in unison. The blonde, who looks perhaps eight, even holds out a chubby hand to shake. “How do you do, I’m Katie!”

“I’m Charlotte!” The younger chimes in from her perch in the car seat, not to be outdone. “And this is Tabby the penguin! Daddy got it for me from his school.” Indeed, the small stuffed penguin in question was wearing a little cable-knit sweater with Harvard University stitched into the front. Rosemary, feeling a bit awkward, shakes the hands of both little girls, as well as the fluffy wing of the little penguin, before turning her attention to the still-slim, still-pretty brunette in the passenger seat. Susan Ellsworth had been engaged to Reg ten years ago, the daughter of a councilwoman and an MIT professor with a lineage as venerable as any in their tony set. Rosemary had not known much about the woman, aside from the fact that she’d gotten a Bachelor of Arts from Mount Holyoke in Classics before marrying Reginald in a lavish society wedding almost as soon as the ink on her Diploma dried. The pale pink cashmere sweater set and matching pearl necklace and earrings she wore were practically a uniform amongst the women of their set; perfectly suitable for church, but the shade became her very well, bringing out the chestnut glints in her dark hair. Her nails are manicured a subdued rose to perfectly match the cashmere, but she smiles at Rosemary, and it looks surprisingly genuine. “I’m so glad you’re here, and I finally get to meet you for real. I hope you don’t mind keeping the girls company-- there shouldn’t be much traffic, all things considered. We sort of make it a tradition to go after church every week for a strawberry shortcake shake.”

“And chicken sandwiches!” Both girls chime in, before giggling.

“But Charlotte has to eat all of my tomatoes, because they’re squishy and I don’t like them!” Katie tells Rosemary, in the artless way of all innocent children who have yet to have their hearts broken by the world around them. The car pulls silently into traffic, and Charlotte lets go of her beloved penguin for long enough to run a sturdy but gently curious hand through Rosemary’s hair. Rosemary, a little startled, looks at the little girl, only to get a wide, dimpled smile in response.

“Your hair looks like Princess Jasmine from Aladdin. She’s my favourite. Katie likes Belle better, though.”

“Daddy says you live in Chicago. Do you know President Obama? My teacher, Mrs. Robertson, says President Obama is from Chicago. I did a book report on him last week and got an A.” Katie, not to be outdone by her little sister, leans around the other side of Charlotte’s car seat to look at Rosemary with an inquisitive look very similar to her father’s. “Is Chicago very far?”

“It’s pretty far,” Rosemary murmurs, but relents under the scrutiny of the girls. “I don’t know President Obama or any other famous people, I’m afraid. But Chicago is a big city, so no one’s going to know everyone there.”

“Is it fun over there? Can we come over sometime and play at your house?” Charlotte sketches a look at her parents in the front, and beams winningly. “If mommy and daddy say okay.”

Rosemary is spared a response as the Range Rover pulls into a parking spot, and both girls are unloaded from the backseat by their mother with a brisk efficiency, little white patent leather shoes tapping merrily away on the pavement as they make their way towards the door. The host of the local burger joint clearly knows the Keaton family, and in short order, they’re seated at a booth, and Rosemary finds herself in between two little girls, both briskly colouring away on their paper placemats with crayons.

“A strawberry shortcake shake with two straws, and a chicken club sandwich with tomatoes on only one half,” Susan orders for the girls. “And I’ll get a Cobb salad with lemon vinaigrette and a Diet Pepsi.”

“I’ll take the All-American burger and some fries, a root beer to drink. What would you like, Rose?”

Rosemary was all set to order something light, but uncharacteristically, she found herself craving a big, sloppy burger as well. “Same thing, but make that a Sierra Mist.”

Their waitress leaves with their orders, and any potentially awkward silence is filled with chatter from the two little girls, who’d apparently had a great deal of energy to work off after likely sitting decorously in church for several hours. Somehow, before Rosemary quite knew how, she found herself in very deep conversation with Charlotte about the real live penguins in the Shedd Aquarium, who undoubtedly were cousins and friends of Tabby from Harvard. It’s almost certainly a con, but she found herself agreeing to not only host a play-date for both girls after she returned home, but taking them out for deep dish pizza as well.

“Now, now, girls, eat your food and stop badgering Auntie Rose,” Reginald admonishes from across the table. “Her and I still have to go to the hospital to see Uncle Tommy, so we can’t be dawdling here all afternoon.”

It’s an unfortunate reminder of the true purpose of her visit, and Rosemary also tucks into her meal without another word. She can’t help but chuckle slightly at Katie opening up her half of the chicken sandwich to check for tomatoes before taking a bite, and after the waitress comes over with the check, she turns to Reginald and Susan with a wan smile. “Well, that was nice. I suppose we’re off to the hospital next?”

“I’ll drop off Susan and the girls at home, then we can head towards the hospital. Our home is on the way, and not far.”

Rosemary acquiesces, and soon enough, they pull up at a prim and tidy row house in a well-to-do part of town with oversized terra-cotta pots filled with bright orange marigolds, glowing against the brownstone. Quite efficiently, Susan hustles both the girls out of the vehicle, and chirps a friendly invitation to Rosemary to join them for dinner sometime later that week. Rosemary makes a noncommital noise but switches over to the front passenger seat before the car pulls out of the driveway.

Reginald doesn’t have the radio on, and now that his wife and children have left the car, the silence is heavy and oppressive between them, and Rosemary fidgets with the cuffs of her sleeves, the slim watch she wears on her left wrist. “You have a beautiful family, Reg. You should be very proud.”

“I am.” Reginald drives carefully and competently, at precisely the speed limit, and though his eyes remain on the road, Rosemary can feel the sincerity of his words. “I owe Susan everything, really. I have to work late more often than I’d like, and oftentimes, I don’t have as much time to spend with them as they probably deserve. But she holds it together, and is making sure that Katie and Charlotte are raised the right way.” Perhaps he feels more than sees Rosemary’s skeptical expression, because he hastens to explain. “That is, not just to be polite and well-bred, but happy, and reasonable, and to know that their parents love them and care about them. They have chores around the house, even-- Katie cleans her own room and sets the table for dinner, and Charlotte feeds the fish and waters the ficus plant in my office. If they’re both good, we try to have movie nights on Sundays. I have a terrible feeling that it’s going to be Disney’s Frozen this week. Again. I really, _really_ hate that song, Oscar nomination be damned.”

“You really love them.” Perhaps that’s not a nice thing to say to him in that surprised tone of voice, but Rosemary blurts it out before thinking it through, and at that, Reginald does glance at her, with a bit of bemusement, but no annoyance.

“They’re my children. Of course I do.” He brakes with meticulous care at a red light, and his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he struggles to find the right words. “I want to do right by them. Every father does, ultimately. And I know that I will make mistakes, and probably upset them at some point, and that very thought is terrifying and heartbreaking all at once, but I don’t think it can be helped. All I can do is try my best, and hope that they’ll never forget that I’m only human, too, and that anything that I do that doesn’t sit well would have been done out of misguided good intentions and not a desire to hurt or distress anyone.”

They’re almost at the hospital now; Rosemary can already see the signs directing people towards parking, or the ER, or the staff entrance, and so on, and it’s not the time and place to confront Reginald on the fact that he’s almost certainly not just speaking about himself, or the hypocrisy of him saying that parental love was supposed to be unconditional when quite clearly, he hadn’t taken her side, either, ten years ago. There’s a dull ache in the pit of her stomach-- perhaps she shouldn’t have eaten that burger, after all-- or perhaps some part of her is dreading all the uncertainty and the possibly disastrous outcomes of seeing her father after so long. But Reg parks the car, and opens the door for her, but lays a hand in an almost-brotherly fashion on her arm as though nothing had changed in the course of that long decade.

“Rose, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

“And what are you sorry for, exactly?” There’s a hint of aspersion in her voice that she can’t quite mask.

“For not being there for you, and not having the courage to own up to the fact that it came from nothing more or less than trying to avoid being caught in the middle of two people I genuinely respect and care about. It wasn’t well done of me, and though my saying so now doesn’t fix anything, I want to apologize, anyway.”

Most politicians are consummate liars and actors, but Rosemary has known Reginald since he was a lanky young man clerking for a high-powered prosecuting attorney who’d had his sights set on politics, and though he undoubtedly doesn’t deserve to be let off so easily, she knows, too, how much it costs him to admit as much to her without so much as any hope or expectation for a positive reception. He’s sincere, almost a glimpse of the kind young man who’d patiently sipped imaginary tea out of a tiny porcelain cup while keeping her company while her increasingly sickly mother had napped and her always-busy father had worked. Rosemary sighs, and gives him a short, jerky nod.

“I wish you all the best with your own daughters, Reg. They’re beautiful, charming little girls, and I can tell that you love them very much.”

“I tell them that every day, just so no one forgets it.” Reginald’s voice isn’t quite even, but he disguises the momentary lapse with a cough. “I’ll let you talk to Thomas privately. He might not be awake when you get to his room-- they keep him drugged up pretty good-- but he usually comes to for a few minutes every afternoon. Just call or text me when you’re ready to go home, and I’ll come pick you up.”

**

Thomas Hawthorne’s room is nice enough as far as hospital ICU rooms are, with a narrow window letting in sunlight and an armchair upholstered in a subdued shade of pale green next to a small table where a reasonably fresh arrangement of flowers sat in a florist issue glass vase. The card attached to the arrangement proclaims it to be from his staff, though the generic get-well message is printed, not hand-written. There’s a helium balloon long-since gone flat tied sadly to a bedpost, but though Reg had sent her a picture of her father on the gurney right after the accident, the actual sight of him now still comes as a blow.

He’d always been a tall, well-built man, with the broad shoulders and upright bearing of someone secure in his position in a world which more often than not answered to him. As a young man, he’d enjoyed sailing; in his later years, he’d switched to golf, but Thomas Hawthorne had always been too disciplined to let his physique go to fat, or his grooming to be anything less than perfectly pristine, even in the privacy of his own home. Every single memory of her father’s hands from childhood on had looked exactly the same-- monogrammed cuff-links and a heavy gold watch, a plain wedding band and neatly trimmed and buffed nails. Now they rest, limp and pale, on the thin hospital-issue blanket, the wedding band looking clunky and too-big against the pasty fingers. His hair had been cut recently, but clearly as a prelude to surgery and not as a matter of upkeep, and there’s a bandage wrapped around his forehead. There’s an IV dripping fluid of some sort into his arm, and as Reg had warned her, he isn’t awake.

Rosemary doesn’t get more than a minute to herself before a female doctor in pale blue scrubs, a sensible bob of blue-black hair peeking out from underneath a surgeon’s cap, pokes her head in through the door. She doesn’t seem surprised to see Rosemary at all, and offers her a faint smile.

“You must be Governor Hawthorne’s daughter, then. Mr. Keaton said that you might be coming to town. I’m Dr. Sarah Messina, the trauma surgeon who operated on your father when he first came in.”

“Yeah, I’m his daughter.” The words are so banal, coming out of her mouth but sounding as though echoing from some far corner of the room. “Can you tell me how he’s doing?”

Dr. Sarah Messina sighs, but after a moment, her intelligent blue eyes meet Rosemary’s violet ones. “Well, the good news is that he has no brain damage. There was a concussion and a skull fracture, which is, of course, unfortunately common in car accidents, particularly head-on collisons. But he’d been wearing a seatbelt and his airbags had deployed, which certainly had saved his life. Unfortunately, as he did drive the smaller of the vehicles involved in the crash, his injuries were fairly extensive. Four broken ribs, and there was some internal injuries from the impact. He also got gashed pretty good by broken glass, including one deep laceration which required stitches on his forehead. It may or may not leave a scar, but it’s too early to tell. Whiplash and a dislocated shoulder from the seatbelt. We had put him in a medically-induced coma for the first week to stabilise him because of all the different injuries and internal bleeding, but he’s strong and healthy for his age, and a fighter.” She pauses, and something about the doctor’s demeanor suggests that she’s saving the worst of it for last. Rosemary sits down in the armchair, and squares her shoulders.

“And?”

Dr. Messina turns to face her, and her eyes are weary behind their wire-frame glasses. “The vehicle which hit his car was a truck, so the impact caused for a great downward force to crush him into his seat. Three discs in the vertebrae were ruptured, causing damage to the spinal cord. We’ve already run some tests, and can certainly run some more, but…”

Rosemary’s heart drops, and she says it before the doctor can even finish her explanation. “He’s paralyzed, isn’t he.”

The doctor nods sadly. “From the waist down. He surprisingly only sustained minor injuries to his legs and feet, but it’s a moot point. He’ll never walk again.”

“I see.” What else could she say to that, really?

“He’ll hopefully make a full recovery aside from that, with time and physical therapy and a lot of rest. He had a good constitution, far better than many men of his age. But I’m sure it will be a great change of lifestyle.”

“Have you told him any of this?” Rosemary demanded. “How did he take it? I know not well.”

“He’s still on morphine, so his lucid moments are fairly brief. He did wake up long enough to know his name, and his address, and his birthday. But we’re hoping to break the news to him once he’s a bit more stable and healed.”

“Has he said anything else? Does he talk to any of you, or Reg?”

“Very little. He did recognize Mr. Keaton when he woke up out of the coma, and then he proceeded to ask for ‘Rosie’. ‘Where is Rosie? When is she coming home?’ I must assume that he’s referring to you, ma’am.”

Almost as though their conversation had woken him, the man who Rosemary only vaguely recognizes as her father stirs in that narrow hospital bed, and then his eyes slowly open. Eyes which had always been pale blue and laser sharp home in on her, but they’re glassy and unfocused from the drugs. Still, they pay almost no mind to the doctor standing next to Rosemary’s chair, and after a moment, his mouth curves up in a miniscule approximation of a smile.

“Rose. Rosie.”

The words are whispered too softly to make any actual sound in the room, but she can read the shape of her name as it passes through his lips. Rosemary presses her own lips together, and can’t quite return his hazy smile.

“Yes, it’s me, dad. I’m here.”

“Okay. Good.” His eyes drift shut again after a moment, but out of the corner of one of them is a streak of shiny moisture trailing a thin path down his pale cheek, and Rosemary has never, ever seen her father cry. Not at her mother’s funeral, or when she’d stalked out of his office and his house and his life. The air in the hospital room seems to vanish all of the sudden, and she all but leaps up, picks up her cell phone. She sends a text to Reginald rather than dialing his number, because she has no idea if her voice would even be steady if she spoke, and any sympathy at this exact moment would quite possibly break her altogether.

She’s outside waiting at the door when Reginald pulls up, now in the sleek black Lexus that he keeps for a personal vehicle rather than the family one, shivering despite the hot sun shining up overhead. Perhaps Reginald has said all that he’d planned to, or perhaps he’s just kind enough to know better, but he simply drives her home in silence with nothing but her racing thoughts and thudding heartbeat for background noise.

**

Massachusetts is one of the few states that does not have a designated Governor’s Mansion, and so even after his election, her father had never moved out of their ancestral home in the Beacon Hill neighbourhood. Rosemary has not been at this house in ten years, and nothing has changed, not even the cloak of dark green ivy climbing up one side of the house, trimmed just so that it softens the red brick without obscuring any windows. The shutters are shiny black, as she remembers-- every single year, after the last snow of the winter, they’re repainted so they never fade into a shade of grey.

Undoubtedly Reg had called ahead, because the main doors open just as she steps onto the porch, and the man who is standing there is equally familiar, though there are a few more wrinkles by his beady black eyes and his neat moustache is now nearly white. Rosemary smiles, taking in the nattily pressed white shirt underneath the black vest. “Dom. It’s good to see you.”

Dominic the butler inclines his head and politely ignores the hand she holds out. “It’s good to see you, too, Miss Rosie. You’re looking well.”

“Not as well as you. Is Phoebe around?”

“She’s busy overseeing dinner, ma’am. We’ll be having fried clams and Yankee pot roast, with cannoli for dessert. All your favourites.”

“Oh, you didn’t have to do all that! Nonetheless, I certainly appreciate it.” Rosemary smiles at the diminutive man, who despite his skinny, bird-like limbs, nonetheless picks up her suitcase and handily hefts it towards the spiralling staircase.

“We’re happy that you’re back, Miss Rosie, for however long you’re here. Now if you please, let me put your belongings in your old room. You should get some rest before dinner. I’m sure it’s been a long day for you.”

Rosemary obediently follows him up the stairs, where her room is still the first door on the left. It’s gloomy, with the chill of being left vacant for a decade, but meticulously clean and neat, not so much as a speck of dust to be found on the rosewood rolltop desk in the corner or a single corner askew in the mathematically made linens covering the four-poster bed. A vase sits on the windowsill, crystal gleaming in the afternoon sunlight against the gloom, and there’s a dozen dead roses in there that once were red, now faded to the purplish-black of a fresh bruise. She’d gotten them that year from a hopeful frat boy in her economics class for Valentine’s Day, and she’d not quite had the heart to tell him that she was not particularly fond of either the flowers in question or that particular holiday.

Dominic had already retreated to the door and was preparing to go back down the stairs, but Rosemary stops him before he takes the first step. “Dom, why did no one throw out the flowers? They’re dead.”

“Your father wanted the room left just as you had it. You’d brought them over the last time you had come home, before…” He looks away, clears his throat, then seems to come to a decision. “Might I overstep my bounds for a moment and show you something, Miss Rosie?”

“Of course.” Curious and a little apprehensive, Rosemary follows Dominic down the hallway to the door of the master bedroom, which, like all the other rooms, is kept scrupulously closed. He turns the doorknob, pushes it open, and though it, too, is gloomy with disuse, Rosemary can’t stifle her gasp.

It is a grand room, with dark wood furnishings and plush carpet that silences her footsteps. The curtains-- a mossy green brocade-- are partially drawn, but the scant sunlight filtering through sparkles against the glass of the perfume bottles on the top of the dresser-- her mother’s, from twenty years ago. On her father’s side of the bed are a charging station for his cell phone, a book that he’s currently reading. On her mother’s side is an old, old photograph, taken when she was perhaps three, a smiling family portrait in a simple gilt frame, next to a pearl necklace that her mother always liked to wear during the days before taking it off for bed. Rosemary feels her breath lodge somewhere, sharp and painful, in her chest. It stings like a dozen industrious sewing-machine needles as she makes her way to the walk-in closet-- on one side, her father’s suits and shirts, dress shoes organized by colour and style. On the other, though they’ve not been touched for the two decades that her mother’s been gone, floaty summer dresses in pastel shades of lilac and seafoam green, cashmere sweaters folded in neat piles, still smelling faintly of lavender and cedar. Dom’s voice comes from somewhere in the vicinity of the bedroom door, through the haze of a suddenly fire-hot, soul-deep anguish.

“Your father wanted it kept just as she had it, too. He knows that she’s gone, and never coming back, but maybe he’d want her to be happy that it’s how she would’ve liked it. If I may be so bold, he’d never stopped mourning for her, in his way.”

It’s unspoken that perhaps Thomas Hawthorne was mourning, too, for a lost daughter as much as for a dead wife, and somehow the implication that he cares hurts more than the resignation that he doesn’t. The bed is old-fashioned, too high up from the carpeted floor which would not at all be conducive to maneuvering a wheelchair over. Rosemary senses more than hears Dominic leaving the room, shutting the door discreetly behind him as he makes his way back down the stairs, and blindly sits down on the side of the bed that used to be her mother’s. In the very least, it no longer bears the antiseptic smell of medicines and hospital-grade cleaners, but the pillowcases are still monogrammed with a scrolled letter “H”, faintly pearl-grey against the spotless white. She curls up, arms wrapped around herself in a vain effort to hold in all the bits and pieces coming loose after the day’s tensions and traumas, small and large, but the first tear escapes despite her very best efforts. After the first one comes another, then another and another, far too fast and fierce for her to put a stop to them. She’s not a crier-- it’s been, perhaps, five years since she’d let herself indulge in tears. But now, she buries her face in that soft, monogrammed linen which smells like lemony soap rather than hospital cleaners, and lets the tears fall while there is no one around to witness the moment of weakness.

**

They have dinner in the kitchen, just Dom and Phoebe and Mrs. Lovelace, the cook, and Mr. Foster, the groundskeeper. No one brings out the company china or the good silver, and it’s certainly a lot less formal than the dinners she’d remembered with her father and Reg and any number of their associates in the dining room, served one course at a time, at a table almost always too big for the number of people eating. No one scolds Rosemary for eating the cannoli with her fingers or laughing at the good-natured griping between Dom and his twin sister Phoebe, the housekeeper. No one pries into what she’s been up to since the age of nineteen, but Phoebe gives her a critical, maternal sort of look when she turns down a second helping of Yankee pot roast and heaps it onto her plate, anyway, and refuses to entertain any protests that she’d had a late and heavy lunch.

“You’ll want the extra food, just mark my words. It’s going to be a stressful few days as you figure out what you’d like to do with Master Thomas and all that. No sense in having you wasting away if there’s a means to stop it.”

Under the beady-eyed scrutiny, Rosemary eats her second plate of food, but is spared further conversation when her cell phone buzzes from her pocket. It’s Jaden. No one present seems to judge her for pulling it out at the dinner table, so she answers it as she mechanically finishes up the last few bites of potatoes and carrots.

“Hey.”

“Well, you sound more than just jet-lagged, babe.” His voice is kind and low and soothes her still-raw nerves like the caress of a warm hand down the spine of a restless cat. “Want to tell me about it?”

“I will,” Rosemary says tonelessly, glancing around the room, but as though by magic, everyone had cleared out aside from Mrs. Lovelace, who was assiduously loading the dishwasher at the other end of the kitchen and facing away, clearly intending to give her her privacy. “In a minute. Tell me about your day, though.”

“My day was fairly uneventful, aside from driving you to the airport. Went home and mowed the lawn, and then had to mediate for a second because I happened to be outside and witnessed old Mrs. Lowenstein threaten to shoot the Sandersons’ poodle because Trixie had, once again, peed in her petunias. I talked her out of it, though. I think. I hope. Because her house is too close to ours for comfort if there are stray bullets flying around.”

“Our house could be all the way down the block from hers and I’d still feel unsafe. She must be eighty if she’s a day.” It coaxes a much-needed chuckle out of her, and she relaxes enough to lean back in her chair, slouch a little in a way which almost certainly would’ve gotten her a disapproving look for bad posture back in the day. “I’m glad that crisis was averted. Maybe the Sandersons should invest in a fence for their dog.”

“Maybe. Aside from that, I think Monica took pity on me being all alone without you here, because she dropped by with a loaf of banana nut bread and a strawberry rhubarb pie and claimed that she’d made too much at her restaurant. She said that she had a dinner meeting, so she didn’t stay long.”

“She’s going to get a billing invoice for your next cavity, and I call baloney on the making too much. She sells out of strawberry rhubarb at the bistro every single time it’s on the brunch menu. And by dinner meeting she means date, but doesn’t want Big Brother Jaden to worry.”

“Big Brother Jaden is fully aware that Monica is totally capable of cracking some guy’s skull with a cast-iron skillet if he did her dirty, but… who’s she dating?”

“It’s not serious yet, but she seems to have struck up a flirtation with your favourite pizza guy.”

“Nico? No kidding.” Jaden chuffs out a laugh. “He does make a damn good deep dish, whatever hype the tourist trap places like Giordano’s might get. But he’s so… loud.”

“He is about as Chicago Italian as they come without being directly descended from Al Capone,” Rosemary points out, shaking her head wryly though there is no one to see. Nicolo Rossi owned two old-school, hole-in-the-wall type pizzerias which despite their unassuming exteriors and fairly rough locations on Chicago’s South Side turned quite-respectable business profits per fiscal quarter and were favourites amongst all the locals, and was as well known for his larger-than-life personality as for his nonna’s tomato sauce recipe, still jealously guarded and used in his restaurants every day.

“Well, he’s a good guy, loudness aside. And Monica can handle herself. That’s really about all that’s going on hereabouts. How’s your dad?”

“He’s lucky to be alive, by all accounts. There was a doctor and she gave me a whole list of injuries. He could’ve not woken up at all, but…” Rosemary takes a shaky breath, forces herself to continue. “He’s paralyzed from the waist down. Even after he gets out of the hospital, he’s going to have to be in a wheelchair for the rest of his life. He’s going to HATE that.”

“Anyone would. Did he recognize you when you went to go see him?” Jaden asks gently.

“Yeah. He called me Rosie, just for a moment. They have him on some pretty strong drugs, so he wasn’t awake for more than a minute.” And that in itself had been rather horrific in its own way. “Nothing has changed, and everything has changed, and… I’m not even making any sense right now. I just… it’s been a very long day. I’m sorry. You know I’m never like this.”

“I don’t actually mind, and for what it’s worth, I think you’re allowed. Do you want to talk about it?”

“He kept everything in my room just as it was, Jaden! Even flowers that have been dead for ten years, that didn’t even mean anything to me.” The thought makes her want to weep again, so she tamps down the uncharacteristic emotionality ruthlessly. “I just… it’s hard being here. He’s not exactly in a state to talk anything out yet, and the waiting’s almost worse.”

“Maybe that’s his penance. He knows, deep down in his heart, how wrong it is to have turned his back on his only daughter.” Rosemary had told Jaden of the whole unpleasant history between her and her father before she’d left for Boston, and in typical considerate Jaden fashion, he’d not said anything judgmental about either of them, simply listened, then promised to be there for her, no matter what happened. She hadn’t realized, until that very moment, how much it mattered to her that he acknowledged her point of view on a fight that had never been his to begin with.

“I guess I’ll find out soon.” Rosemary murmurs. All of the sudden, the fatigue hits, and she finds herself fighting yawns. “God, I’m so tired. Which is weird, isn’t it? I basically spent all day sitting around doing nothing.”

“That, too, can be exhausting if you’re not used to it. You should probably take a long hot bubble bath, then try to get some sleep. I’ll call you again tomorrow after you feel a bit more yourself.”

“And you’re so certain that I will, hmm? Feel more myself, that is.”

She can all but hear the smile in his voice. “You’re always yourself, Rosemary. Whether or not you’re certain enough at any given moment to feel like it. But I’ll let you get some rest, get settled in. I love you.”

“I love you, too. Good night.”

She makes her way back up the stairs, and unpacks her luggage into a dresser and bureau still partially filled with belongings from her teenage years. The bed is full-sized rather than the king-sized one that she and Jaden share, but it will feel bigger and lonelier without him lying there next to her. Certainly, the bubble bath he’d suggested is necessary in the very near future, but first things first.

The window opens out to the yard, though it’s stuck and creaky from lack of use, and Rosemary is sweating and sore by the time she finally manages to get it opened wide enough. She drops the dead roses out the window, one at a time, until that long-untouched vase is empty, then rinses it clean in the bathroom sink.

Tomorrow, she’d get some new flowers for it-- something different, something she’d actually like. Perhaps some white Casablanca lilies. It was high time to let go of the long-dead ghosts of the past.

**

Rosemary, once her mind is made up to do something, is not one to dawdle. She takes quick stock of the different rooms downstairs to figure out which one would best suit being converted into a bedroom suitable for an invalid, and decides upon her father’s study, which is of the most suitable size and easily accessible via the back parlour. Of course, the downstairs lavatory would also need to be remodeled to include a handicap-accessible bath, and since that is really the simpler of the tasks ahead, she tackles it first, enlisting the help of Dom and Phoebe to find a suitable contractor for the project.

They get someone in within twenty-four hours, and though the house is a cacophony of drilling and hammering for the next few days, and Phoebe, certainly, grumbles about the main floor bathroom being out of commission while burly men with tool belts wander through the house, the bathroom is expanded to twice its original size, and fitted with a double-width shower stall with handicap handrails, and it is well into mid-week when Rosemary calls Reginald up one morning.

“Good morning, Rose. Hope you’re settling in well.” Reginald has what Rosemary considers his ‘company’ voice on, which means that despite the relatively early hour of half-past nine, he must have been at work for quite a while already. “How can I help you today?”

“I’m remodeling.” Rosemary doesn’t see the point in beating about the bush. “I’m sure you know my dad’s prognosis. He’s not going to be able to stay in that upstairs bedroom when he gets back, so I’m taking it upon myself to convert his office downstairs instead. It’s going to be a lot of work, and there’s undoubtedly a lot of stuff in there that probably should not get thrown away by accident. If you’re free sometime this week, I’d appreciate your help figuring that out.”

There’s a beat, then the clacking of computer keys, and then Reginald’s voice, but clearly from a bit of a distance as though speaking into a different phone receiver. “Emma, cancel all my appointments for this afternoon. Reschedule them for a different day.” She hears the peremptory click of a phone receiver being hung up, before Reg sighs. “All right. Give me an hour to finish up. I’ll be there.”

“You don’t have to if you’re busy today,” Rosemary demurs. “I didn’t even ask-- who’s handling things while my dad’s laid up?”

“Thankfully for all of us, he has an incredibly competent Lieutenant Governor who has been the Acting Governor since the car accident. You might remember her, actually, from your father’s old lawyering days, as one of his colleagues out of the DA’s office-- Ava Channing. She’ll understand if I take a day or two off to help you out. She’d probably insist, actually.”

“Yes, I think you’re right.” Rosemary doesn’t remember much of the formidable Ava Channing aside from a firebrand personality and a vivacious energy that presented a stark contrast to her father’s more staid, cool-and-collected demeanour. All for the better, then. “Though, you should probably make it an hour and a half rather than an hour.”

“Oh? I can be there within the hour, I promise. Traffic’s dying down, and I just have one thing to wrap up that will only take about fifteen minutes.”

“Well, I’m about to go grab some food before I really get into this. Didn’t eat much earlier, but now I’m starving. And furthermore, you might want to change into something a bit more durable and practical than whatever you’re wearing right now. I doubt a three-piece suit is going to survive the ordeal of moving and rearranging furniture, and it’s going to look really damned out of place at the hardware store.”

**

It takes two days’ worth of work split into several shifts, working around Reginald’s occupational duties, before they finish clearing everything out of the office. The ordeal extends beyond just the physical dismantling and moving of furniture and books and electronics, but painstakingly re-organizing everything. Thomas Hawthorne certainly was not one to get rid of even quite-old papers and ledgers, and also quite a stickler for organization, and to re-file everything in a way that would hopefully not send the old man into a conniption fit is a formidable task all on its own. Then, too, are the memories-- good and bad-- that surface with the accounts which see the light of day for perhaps the first time in years. Rosemary finds a yellowed greeting card-- a sympathy-for-your-loss one-- from twenty years back, upon the occasion of her mother’s death. There are old college transcripts from her freshman year at Northwestern, but nothing further. She’d been nineteen when that final, fateful confrontation with her father had taken place.

Reg, though he himself almost certainly would’ve hired movers to do the heavy lifting, sucks it up and wades in, hauling out boxes and heavy furniture with the help of the household staff, drives Rosemary to Home Depot and IKEA and Target and all manner of plebeian big box stores that he’d probably not be caught dead in otherwise without protest. They pick out furniture for its functionality and ease of assembly rather than costly, impractical antiques, and Reginald signs the credit card slips-- from a household account-- with the air of a man stoically performing a necessary evil.

They carefully work in silence and don’t bring up the demons of the past until the project is well enough underway that neither of them are likely to abandon ship, but it is upon the drive home from the Sherwin Williams store-- Rosemary declared that no bedroom, particularly for an invalid, should feature cavernous, gloomy dark wood walls-- that they finally tackle the elephant in the room.

There’s several cans of a pale, translucent green paint named “White Mint” in the trunk of Reg’s car as the black Lexus pulls away from the paint store parking lot and into traffic. Rosemary is fairly sure that the jeans he’s wearing are designer Levi’s which have already seen some damage in the last few days, and it’s quite possibly indeed that the Harvard Law sweatshirt he has on is the only garment of the sort that he owns. There’s a grease stain of some sort on the wrist cuff of that sweatshirt, undoubtedly from the work of the last few days, but he has yet to complain, and that counts for something, at least.

“You’ve been a good sport about all this, I suppose.”

“I’m trying,” Reg brakes carefully as the traffic light ahead turns yellow, then red. “I know… I know it’s not enough.”

“Do you, really?” Rosemary had woken up that morning feeling queasy and tired, as though she’d not slept at all the night before, and it was only under Phoebe’s watchful and more-than-a-little judgmental stare that she’d managed to choke down two slices of toast and a few bites of scrambled eggs that morning for breakfast at all. If Reg finally deemed it the appropriate time for long-overdue self-flagellation, she had no intentions of holding back. “I was nineteen, Reg! Barely a year into undergrad, and when he decided that he didn’t like the way I chose to spend _my_ own money, he cut me off and told me to get out of his house, and when I went to you, because _I had no one else to turn to_, you couldn’t do a goddamned thing for me other than put me on a plane back to Chicago and wish me Godspeed, write me a check like I’m some charity case you could write off after as a tax deduction. You were my friend-- maybe my only one, growing up. I’m not saying you had to take care of me, but I expected better out of you than that!”

“I know, and I can’t excuse myself or pretend that there’s anything I can say to make it right. I was scared-- cowardly, if you will.” They pull up at her father’s house, and Reg sighs even as he unloads the paint cans. “I didn’t want to get caught in the middle of it. Knee-jerk reaction, if you will. I convinced myself, for perhaps a week or so, that I’d done my duty and made sure that you’d not want for any funds for the next school term, and that you-- as strong and smart and independent as you are-- would be all right without your father, or me. I was right, in the latter. But I have no way to atone for the first, and I know that only too well.”

He lugs the paint cans into the all-but-stripped-bare former study, where drop cloths have already been placed on the floor, and masking tape to protect the crown molding of the floor and baseboards. They’ve already gotten the rollers and trays and brushes ready, and he walks over towards the window to crack it open even as Rosemary slips a putty knife under the edge of the first paint can to pry it open.

The nausea hits her with the first whiff of the paint smell, hard and fast and brutal, and she barely makes it over to the wastebasket in one corner of the room before vomiting the remnants of her breakfast into it. Reg is by her side in an instant, wide-eyed in blank consternation for a second before barking out orders-- for water, for a cool cloth and a chair, and it’s mere seconds later that Rosemary finds herself ushered into the kitchen under Phoebe’s care and supervision with tea on the kettle and a glass of ice water on the table in front of her. Reg had tersely promised to finish the painting by himself; what could be so hard, he’d scoffed, about rolling paint back and forth on a smooth wall? So she gulps down water to wash out the rancid taste from her mouth, even as Phoebe smooths a calloused but gentle hand down the length of her hair.

“Sick as a dog after a Sunday dinner, and you’d barely eaten this morning,” the housekeeper tuts, stepping away from the kitchen table to add a drop of lemon juice to the cup of hot tea. “Your mama was the same way, as I remember.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Those beady black eyes fix upon her face, somehow inscrutable and knowing all at once. “When she was carrying you, Miss Rosie. We had to coax her to eat in the mornings, and hope that she’d keep it down later.”

That first swallow of tea burns like fire as it goes down, and not because of the temperature. Rosemary thinks back, does a few mental calculations, and her heart drops somewhere around the same level as her ankles.

**

Rosemary visits the hospital for the second time a week into her stay in Boston-- a week’s worth of busywork and reminiscing and a mildly panicky trip to the drug store. Her father is more alert this time, and awake when she walks in. He doesn’t smile, but then again, he doesn’t exactly have a great deal to smile about. He says her name, though, and this time it’s loud enough to hear.

“Good afternoon, dad. How are you feeling?”

“Like I got hit by a truck.” The attempt at humour is weak and falls flat. He’s nonetheless better than the last time she’d seen him. The bed is reclined up at an angle, and he’s sipping water out of a styrofoam cup through a straw.

“Well, you kind of did,” Rosemary murmurs. They’re alone in the room; perhaps both the doctor and Reginald had reached some sort of unspoken agreement that the old man would not want witnesses at this particular moment. “Do you remember what happened?”

“I don’t remember the day, but I’ve been told that there was a car accident.” Thomas Hawthorne looks down at the bedspread. “It’s been about two months, as I understand it.”

“What else did they tell you?” Rosemary asks slowly, settling into her chair.

“I asked for you, when I came to. You weren’t there.” His brow furrows as though he’s trying to build a mental timeline. “But then, you came. You look different.”

“I’m sure I do. You haven’t seen me in about ten years, dad. I’m surprised you still recognize me.”

He has the grace to look away, ashamed. “I wouldn’t ever not recognize you, Rosie.”

“If you say so, dad. I’ve been here for about a week. Did the doctor tell you how badly you were injured by that car crash?”

“Maybe. I don’t remember. My chest and shoulders are sore, but I can think straight again, finally.”

“Well, they’d had to keep you on all types of drugs as you healed up. You’ll be out of commission for some time yet, but Reg says you have good people handling business for you at work. You might need to count on them for a while longer, dad.” There’s no point in prolonging it; she has always been bluntly honest-- a trait undoubtedly frustrating to the likes of her politically-savvy father and Reg. “Have you tried moving your legs, wiggling your toes?”

A blank, shuttered look falls upon his face, and that, more than anything he might say, is a damning tell-all. He has-- it’s written all over his face, and Rosemary cuts to the chase. “You ruptured three disks in your spine during the accident, dad. And it injured your spinal cord. You’re paralyzed from the waist down, and there’s nothing they can do.”

The cup of water, thankfully-mostly-empty, is hurled across the room, and lands with a soft, anticlimactic thump on the floor, straw and a dribble of liquid spilling out. She had not expected him to take the news well, but plows on, determined to put it all out in the open. “You’re not going to be helpless. With physical therapy and a caretaker and a wheelchair, you’ll still be able to move about. There was no lasting brain damage or internal injuries. I just spent the last week remodeling your office into a bedroom so you’d have a place to rest that doesn’t involve having to climb up and down the stairs.” She holds out her hands, with a wry smile-- after that first, initial bout of nausea, she’d made a point to help Reg finish doing the room up, despite his vigorous protests. There’s a faint smear of White Mint on her right index finger, from when she’d hung up a picture back on a wall still just the tiniest bit damp. “You can tell me I’ve overstepped my bounds all you want, but you were also the one who made me come here. And since I came, I did what I had to do, so you could come home and recover and live out the rest of your life as best you can.”

He doesn’t respond or look at her, and it’s only the harsh, unsteady sound of his breathing that lets Rosemary know that he’s awake and alert and still paying attention. She waits it out, as the muffled sounds of the hospital-- slightly-squeaky rubber soles on the polished floors, the growling roll of wheeled equipment, the steady, monotonous beep of the machines hooked up to his body-- echo around them, ominously quiet. When he finally speaks, his voice is quiet and unsteady, sad and defeated-sounding as she has never heard before in her recollection.

“I have no right to ask, of course. But how long are you here for?”

The stark admission of the first part of his statement makes her feel teary again, so she clears her throat and keeps everything pure business. “I have two weeks of paid vacation from my job, and took it. After that, I’m staying probably another month or so, just to make sure that everything is situated and in order. My husband will fly over and join me as soon as he can to help out. Reginald says he will be reimbursing me for any lost income.”

“You…” He doesn’t finish his sentence, and Rosemary can guess at what he’s about to say, so she plows on, perhaps inexorably.

“I’m a CPA married to a high school math teacher, dad. We’re decently well-off, but I can’t just miss months of work at a time and expect to have a job waiting for me when I decide to come back. Obviously, I also have some savings, but they’re for my retirement, not to liquidate at will whenever something comes up. I gave up that lifestyle where everything’s at my beck and call ten years ago, and you know what? I’m probably a much better person for it. But we’re not here to discuss me, at least not right this second. You can expect me here long enough to see you out of the hospital and engaged in physical therapy, settled back in at home. But after that, I have a life to return to in Chicago.”

He nods jerkily, and keeps silent. Perhaps he knows that he’d lost any say in her life by his own doing all those years ago. Rosemary sighs, and stands up, and picks up the thrown water cup, throws it into the trash. “My husband will be here tomorrow. His name is Jaden. Be nice to him when you meet him, if you have it in you.”

That last bit is undeniably snide of her, but he doesn’t call her out on it. When he finally speaks again, he’s gotten himself mostly under control, and his eyes are sad and tired as they look into hers. “Does he treat you well?”

“Yes, dad. We love each other very much.” Just the thought of Jaden steadies her, and she stands, straightening her shoulders. “We’ll come and see you together after he gets here, but for now, I should go. They’re probably going to serve you dinner soon. Hopefully it’s something good.”

**

Reginald undoubtedly has better things to do on Father’s Day, June 16th, than to pick Jaden up from the airport. Rosemary would bet money on it that Susan and the girls had planned some elaborate, entirely adorable family brunch type experience complete with Disney movies and endless pancakes, which he would’ve had to duck out early on to head to the Hawthorne estate to pick her up, then head out to the airport. She doesn’t comment on it, though, and the ride progresses in a sort of anxious silence-- it might have been mere weeks since she’d seen him last, but between the stress of being back in Boston and everything which had transpired since, she’s on tenterhooks.

She gets a text from Jaden that he’s landed and heading towards baggage claim just as they spot the first signs for the airport, and though she knows that it’s a lost cause, she mentally wills Reg to drive faster. The Lexus pulls up at the curb for domestic arrivals just as Rosemary sees a telltale head of blond hair exiting one of the doors, and she has her seatbelt unfastened and is out of the car before Reg can even come to a full stop.

Jaden catches sight of her a moment before she reaches him, and his smile is brighter than the summertime sun. He drops the suitcase just before she runs into his arms, and they’re almost certainly holding up traffic at the door and making a spectacle of themselves, but Rosemary can’t bring herself to care, not when her toes are curling in their sensible shoes and his hand is warm against the nape of her neck, cupping it in the way that she likes, as he plants a definitely-not-the-staid-married-couple kiss on her lips. She nestles close, even when their mouths pull apart, one arm sneaking around his waist as her face finds the crook of his neck.

“I missed you too, sweetheart,” his breath stirs the hair by her temple. He picks up the suitcase, but keeps one arm strong and steady around her shoulders. “You’re looking a bit pale. I don’t have to yell at you for overworking, do I?”

“N-no.” Breakfast had, once again, not agreed with her, though she’d managed to eat a quick if fairly infantile lunch in the form of a fluffernutter sandwich. The New England staple had certainly never tasted so delicious before, but she puts that thought out of her mind for the moment even as Reginald gets out from the driver’s side of the car, trunk popping open, hazards dutifully flashing. “Oh, Jaden. This is Reginald Keaton, Chief of Staff of the Massachusetts Governor. In other words, my dad’s assistant. Reg, this is my husband, Jaden Irving.”

Both men are tall and blond and handsome, but the resemblance ends there. Where Reginald looks polished and faintly inscrutable in a dark-gray suit, Jaden is wearing jeans, with a smile on his face, his blue eyes warm as he holds out a hand for the older man to shake. Reginald gives Jaden a quick, subtle once-over, but politely takes over the roll of bellhop, loading the latter’s luggage competently into the trunk of his car. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Irving. I’ve known Rose, here, since she was a little girl.”

“Please call me Jaden, then. And I appreciate the ride.”

Despite his playful protests, Rosemary insists that Jaden take the passenger seat, citing his superior height, and curls up in the backseat as the Lexus pulls into traffic. It comes as no surprise whatsoever that almost as soon as they’re out of the airport proper, Reginald launches straight into a very civil, very polite, but certainly very unmistakable interrogation of Jaden without any further ado.

“Rose has not been very forthcoming about you, though she did state that the two of you met in school. It’s good to put a face to the name, finally.”

“Yes, we met at Northwestern. Her junior year, my senior year, I believe it was? Stats class. I missed a few classes because I had the flu, and asked her if I could copy her notes, since she usually sat next to me-- Hawthorne, Irving. Sort of struck up an acquaintance after that.”

“I see. You two have known each other for quite a long time, then. She says that you teach secondary education in mathematics.”

“Honors Algebra and AP Calculus,” Jaden confirms. “We actually started dating when I was getting my Master’s and she was getting her MBA, then got engaged when we graduated, got married after we bought the house.” Rosemary is well aware that he knows the nature of this conversation, but in typical calm, easygoing Jaden fashion, is deciding to roll with it. “It’s been a wonderful two years so far.”

“I’m sure. Is this your first time out on the East Coast, then?”

“Outside of the requisite childhood vacation to Disneyworld way back in the day, yes it is. I’m sure Rosemary will show me all her favourite places in town while I’m here. I can’t in good conscience support the Red Sox, though, sorry. Chicago boy, through and through.”

“What a pity. That being said, I can’t say that I particularly understand the point of getting rowdy and belligerent over an athletic event the way some people are wont to do. Certainly not to the extent of causing a scene. I do hope you enjoy your time here, of course, whatever feelings you may have about those who frequent Fenway Park. You and Rose will have to drop by sometime for dinner. My wife loves to entertain.”

“That’s very nice of you. I’m sure we’ll take you up on it.”

“I know it’s undoubtedly far too maudlin and personal for so short an acquaintance such as ours, but your wife’s almost like family to me. I have, regrettably, lost touch with her for a while, but it’s important to me that she’s well.”

“Why don’t you just ask for his driver’s license and social security number too while you’re at it, Reg?” Rosemary interjects acidly. “Maybe his credit history, or his last six paycheck stubs? The overprotective big brother act is tired, overdone, and might I add, six years too late.”

Before Reginald can defend himself, Jaden reaches back, lays a hand unerringly on her knee, and in the rearview mirror, she can see his easy smile. “Hey, don’t be mad at the guy. I did the same thing when Mandy got engaged to Kevin, but a lot less politely. I’m a big brother too, I get it.”

“He is NOT my big brother,” Rosemary mutters from the backseat and glares at the back of Reg’s head, and Jaden gives her knee another pat.

“No matter. What are the plans for this evening, babe?”

“We’re going to let Reg drop us off at my dad’s house and get back to his day, seeing as to how it’s Father’s Day. And then, later, we’re probably going to go visit my dad. Seeing as to how it’s Father’s Day.”

“Fair enough.” As though on cue, the car pulls up the driveway of the stately old house and Reginald puts it in park. Jaden gives the building one long look, but doesn’t comment on it, and instead turns to the other man, holding out his hand in a conciliatory way. “Well, I appreciate you taking time out your day to come get me, man. And watching out for Rosemary.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Reginald shakes his hand, taking refuge in formal, old-fashioned civility. “The two of you do need to drop in for dinner sometime this week. What day would work best, do you think?”

“Your schedule is definitely busier than ours, so why don’t you just let me know?” Reg makes a vague noise of assent as he opens her door, then pulls Jaden’s suitcase out of the trunk. Politely, he waits until the front door opens to reveal Dom’s face before pulling out of the driveway. Jaden turns to Rosemary with a wry look.

“So. Your dad’s loaded and more likely than not will hate me for existing.”

“Probably, but you shouldn’t care about it. I don’t.” Rosemary raises her chin and clenches two handfuls of his shirt in her fists. “Nor should you care about Reg’s opinion, for that matter.”

“I care mostly about yours, don’t worry.” He grins, and dips his head, presses a quick kiss to her frowning mouth, then another, until she relents and relaxes. “You’ll have to catch me up in a minute, once we get inside. I’m pretty sure we’re making a spectacle out here, and your neighbours probably _are_ the type to mind.”

**

Rosemary gives Jaden about an hour to unpack and meet the household staff, and needless to say, he makes the most of that time, managing to charm even the reticent, grumpy, ‘Down-East’ Phoebe and Dom with his inherent midwestern niceness. He blithely offers to sneak a chocolate whoopie pie to the invalid Thomas Hawthorne, asks all sorts of questions about the history of that grand old house and its inhabitants. By the time that Mr. Foster has the car pulled up to the front of the drive, Jaden has heard more than enough stories about Rosemary’s own mostly-well-behaved youth that there’s a somewhat infuriating glint of devilry in his eyes. She’d have to rectify that problem later, perhaps after she found the right way to tell him her own news.

By now, the trek from the main entrance of the hospital to Thomas Hawthorne’s room is a familiar one, and they arrive just as one of the nurses is walking out. Rosemary doesn’t miss the half-flirtatious once-over that the girl gives Jaden, but her mind is too preoccupied with the imminent meeting to do more than link her fingers with his. He gives her hand a quick squeeze, then pushes the door of the room open, shortening his pace to match hers.

“Happy Father’s Day, dad.” Rosemary had not brought any flowers or cards to mark the occasion, but she does pull the book-- a hardcover biography of Alexander Hamilton-- she’d grabbed from his nightstand out of her purse. “Thought you might be bored, and you looked to be in the middle of this.”

“Thanks,” he answers perfunctorily, but his eyes are fixed upon Jaden. “This must be your husband, Rosie.”

“Jaden Irving, sir. Nice to finally meet you.” Jaden holds out a hand for him to shake, nothing but a polite smile on his face. “Happy Father’s Day, by the way, and you have my thanks for bringing the most amazing woman I’ve ever met into the world.”

Thomas shakes his hand with a grunt. “Keaton tells me you’re a teacher of some sort.”

“I’m sure Reg has conducted a full-on background check, like he has some right to peep into my life,” Rosemary mutters.

“Hush. He’s only trying to look out. I certainly would have done the same thing.” Thomas sets the book down on his bedspread and looks from Jaden to Rosemary and back. “Where did you meet my daughter, then?”

“Northwestern, my senior year,” Jaden recounts easily. “We had a math class together, and she let me borrow her notes once.”

“Hmph. I wish she would’ve gone to school out here. She was accepted into Harvard and Amherst, you know.”

“I’m sure of it. She’s a very smart, hardworking lady.” Jaden doesn’t take any offense, and meets the old man’s grumpy stare with a smile. “She’s far too good for me, or any other man on the face of the planet, really, but I’m glad destiny managed to bring us together, nonetheless.”

“You’re a cool one, aren’t you. Not much fazes you, I take it?”

“I’d like to think so. And really, I get it. I’d probably do the exact same thing if I had a daughter as beautiful and wonderful as Rosemary.” Jaden lets out a laugh, not noticing that his wife has dropped her gaze to the toes of her shoes. “Anyway, Phoebe wanted you to have some snacks. Contraband, as I understand it.” He digs into his pocket and extracts a mostly-intact whoopie pie in its wrapper, and hands it with the air of a mischievous boy to Thomas. “It seemed like the least I could do, being Father’s Day and all.”

Thomas takes the proffered treat, but doesn’t eat it. “So you grew up in the Chicago area, then?”

“Yes, sir. Out in the suburbs, but about a half-hour drive away from the city itself. I’m the oldest of three and have two younger sisters. Pretty standard family-- mom’s a kindergarten teacher, dad’s a pharmacist. Rosemary and I visit my folks probably once every other week or so. I’m pretty sure my mom thinks she’s the most fantastic thing that the world has seen since sliced bread, and definitely the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“Dad, we just came to visit, not to get the third degree. I’m sure you can get all the information from Reginald, who already gave my husband the third degree,” Rosemary deadpans, but manages to muster up a wan smile. “You’d best eat your contraband before the doctors and nurses come in to check up on you. I’m sure if Phoebe has anything to say about it, she’d sneak in a whole Boston Creme Pie just for you.”

“I like the way your Phoebe thinks,” Jaden chuckles, and at Rosemary’s look, stands, holding out his hand for his father-in-law to shake. “Good to have met you, sir. And Happy Father’s Day.”

**

They take their leave, and make the short trip back to the house. “I think, all in all, he was in good spirits,” Jaden says reflectively once they get back, in the privacy of Rosemary’s old room. “I mean, it would be the first real Father’s Day that he’s had in ten years, wouldn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Rosemary watches out of the corner of her eye, bracing herself for the conversation as he digs out his phone charger, plugs it into the wall. She takes a deep breath, wishing it were steadier, and moves to stand in front of him. “Jaden?”

“Yeah?” He plugs his phone into the charger absently, then proceeds to unpack his toiletries bag.

“Happy Father’s Day to you, too.”

The travel-sized bottle of mouthwash hits the floor with a barely-audible thump, as Jaden jerks his head up, stares at her with wide blue eyes. “I’m sorry--- what?”

“Happy Father’s Day to you, too.” She knows, by the heat in her cheeks, that she’s blushing, though it’s hard to say why. They’d talked about children before, and both of them were in agreement that they’d be happy with one or two someday. Certainly, this episode with her father notwithstanding, they were both healthy, settled, financially stable. But still, the very idea of being on the precipice of total responsibility for a helpless little human is terrifying. “I’m pregnant. I don’t quite know how far along, but I think about two months.”

“Oh, God…” He catches her up, somehow gentle and exuberant at the same time as he swings her in a circle, then kisses her fiercely. “We’re going to have a baby. You should probably go see a doctor, if you haven’t already. Did you? How are you feeling? God, I’m really going to have to make sure you don’t overdo it while you’re here, hmm?” He kisses her again before she can answer, then hugs her close. “I love you more and more every day. Does anyone else know?”

“Phoebe, I think, but that’s because she’s a freaking supernatural being who knows everything,” Rosemary’s voice is muffled against his neck, her fingers clenched on his shoulders. “Reg caught me puking one morning while we were painting my dad’s office, but I don’t know if he connected the dots. I haven’t actually told anyone else yet, because I wanted to tell you first.”

He tilts her face up, kisses her forehead, then her mouth again. “Okay. Now that I know, I’m going to have to pamper you for the rest of this trip, of course. Goodness, if you have a little girl, she’s going to look just like you. I’m going to have my work cut out for me, hmm?

Rosemary laughs, but it sounds shaky even to her own ears. “I have no idea how to be a mom, of either a boy or a girl. I barely remember my own mom-- I’d just started second grade when she first got sick. And as for my dad--- well. You saw.”

Jaden smiles tenderly down at her, and his hands, infinitely warm and gentle, stroke down the length of her hair before rubbing a soothing circle at the small of her back. “You’ll be a wonderful mom, because even after everything that’s transpired, you have found it in you to come here, so that you can forgive your dad and give him another Father’s Day. If that’s not unconditional love, I don’t know what is.” One of his hands slides forward to her still-flat tummy, rests there, where their baby is probably only about the size of her thumbnail. “Hey, sweetie, though I’m sure you’re still too small to hear me… you’re the luckiest baby in the world, to come from your mama, you know that? You’d better be good to her, because she’ll never be anything but good to you.”

She’s tired and nervous and every single day that she’s been here has been slightly overwhelming, but now she’s not alone any more. Jaden’s arm is around her, his pulse steady as a drumbeat under her ear, and for the first time in weeks, she lets herself relax and hope, in the foolish trusting way of youngsters and the young-at-heart, that everything will be okay.

**

Rosemary wakes up the next morning without much of an appetite, but in the very least, her stomach is not on the verge of rebelling. She’s also mostly trapped underneath a still-sleeping Jaden, who is clearly used to a bigger bed and had proceeded, in the course of the night, to curl his whole body around hers while also stealing most of the blankets. She rolls her eyes and pushes gently on his chest with one hand, but he simply snuffles against her hair and tugs her even closer.

“You are lucky I don’t have to hurl or pee this morning, because I am definitely not big enough to move you out the way to get to the bathroom.”

“Mmm?” He stirs, but his eyes remain closed for another moment, blond eyelashes glittering like old gold in the sunlight filtering through the muslin curtains. His hand wanders down, and Rosemary stifles a yelp against the pillowcase.

“Stop that! I will absolutely not be able to look Phoebe in the eye over the breakfast table if you start that!”

His chin is just a little stubbly, and when he chuckles, it tickles against the skin of her neck. “Missed you, beautiful.”

“I missed you too. But we are definitely not going to be late to breakfast. Especially not because we were doing naughty things in my childhood bedroom. For goodness’ sake, my old teddy bear is on that shelf, watching us!”

He doesn’t say anything in response to that, but opens his eyes slowly, love and devilry warm in his gaze as it locks on her face, and he lifts up a hand to smooth down her undoubtedly-messy hair, stroke his slightly rough fingertips down the curve of her cheek, the length of her neck. She shivers, despite her best efforts, even though it is not cold in the room by any stretch of the imagination. His touch pauses at the v-neck of her sleeping shirt, right where fabric meets skin, and dawdles there, but he doesn’t go further even as the air between them thins, sparks with a faint electric tension. The bed is definitely too small and both of them probably have morning breath and Phoebe’s expression is going to be completely terrible to behold when they finally come down, but it’s Rosemary who tugs his head down, fingers tangling in the familiar texture of his hair, sheets and blankets becoming hopelessly wrinkled as she rolls over.

“You have jet lag and I wasn’t feeling well,” she manages to tell him between kisses, trying her best to keep her voice down low so that no one could hear them. “That’s our story and we stick to it.”

Jaden’s voice is muffled against her skin, rough and sultry as his wandering hands. “Or I could just tell the truth and say I missed my beautiful wife. If she asks. Hopefully she doesn’t ask.”

Her night-shirt hits the floor, and the worry about Phoebe’s reaction hits the floor with it. Rosemary skims her own fingers down his sides, keeping her eyes fixed on his face, watching his lips part and listening to his breath catch in his throat, unable to stop a smirk from creeping up the corners of her lips when he gasps.

They are an hour and twenty-six minutes late to breakfast that morning.

Phoebe turns her beady-eyed gaze from a slightly giggly Rosemary, to Jaden, then back again, but says nothing whatsoever, and sets down toast and fruit and bacon on the table with exaggerated, polite silence. Rosemary barely notices.

**

The dinner party at the Keaton residence is, naturally, a formal and impeccably cooked and presented meal served one course after another, using the good silver and china. They have gin martinis-- which Rosemary refrains from-- with an elegant selection of charcuterie and cheese and fruit: pale pink slivers of proscuitto, brick-red salami rounds, chunks of smoked summer sausage, wedges of creamy havarti and goat cheese circles rolled in cranberry compote and finely chopped pistachios, cornichons and olives and raspberries and deep purple grapes, before they are even called in for the meal. In the traditional New England style, it starts off with bowls of clam chowder, followed by a light arugula and bacon salad, then a show-stopping surf and turf featuring buttery lobster tails and delicately presented lamb chops redolent of za’atar and garnished with sprigs of rosemary. A little to Rosemary’s surprise, Reginald’s two daughters sit and eat with them, being served small portions of the salad and a lobster mac and cheese. Both of them seem completely enamoured of Jaden, and spend most of the meal asking him his opinions on such important matters such as his favourite Pixar film (Finding Nemo) and whether he enjoyed playing Mario Kart (yes). Jaden is also voluntold by his new best friends to join them in the den to watch The Lion King after dinner, and retreated after dessert and espresso with one little girl on each side, still talking at him a mile a minute.

Rosemary refrains from the espresso as well, and settles in to talk business. Certainly, Reginald, who’d been somewhat stiltedly polite during the meal, did not invite them just for the sake of sharing a meal. For better or worse, Thomas Hawthorne is ready by medical standards for outpatient care and to be moved back to his own residence. Rosemary is certain that, although she has never seen Reg there visiting her father, he does so at least as often as she does, and perhaps more.

“I don’t see the point in wasting time with small talk when it’s just us and we’re both well aware of the situation with your father, Rose.” Reg sips his espresso, then sets down the tiny cup. “I’ve been looking into a full time caregiver for him pretty much since the accident happened and the doctors came back to us with his prognosis.”

It’s a crucially important task, and one which would definitely not have fallen under Reginald’s purview as her father’s colleague. But then, Reginald had always been there, while she… Rose shuts off that train of thought with a click. “How’s that looking? Do you want me to help?”

“I actually think that I might have found the guy. Someone by the name of Gary Melvins. He definitely comes highly recommended from the good folks at the hospital. He’d taken on a few patients for short-term care here and there, and wants something more permanent. He has a very impressive resume-- a Bachelor’s of Science degree in Nursing with a minor in Physics from Georgia State, is a licensed RN and has a Physical Therapy certification. As I understand it, he’s grossly overqualified to be doing whatever he’s currently doing at the hospital now, but since him and his wife have just moved up here from Atlanta two months ago, he’s still getting acclimated to a new workplace. I actually have made an appointment to meet with him tomorrow, but if you’d like to come along…”

“I’ll be there. What time tomorrow?”

“I canceled my morning appointments, so probably around nine. I can pick you up around half-past eight.”

“That’s fine.” Rosemary takes a long, appraising look at Reginald, and blurts out the question which had been on her mind since she’d heard from him about her father’s accident. “Reg, why do you do all this? You don’t have to, you know.”

“I know.” Reginald gives her a sad sort of smile, and reaches over to give his wife’s hand a quick squeeze. “He’s not my father. I don’t think, really, that he’s ever been much of a father, or much of a husband. I can respect him greatly as a person and a boss and still acknowledge those things. He’s an old man who now has to live with the fact that when he had the choice, he picked work over his family, and he’s now reaping what he sowed, and just on the basis of karma, he should be all alone. But… I don’t think I could come home and face my wife, face my own daughters, if I let someone who’d spent twenty years of his life mentoring me, for better or worse, just face it all alone. That probably sounds really self-righteous, but… I’ve done one person wrong, in that way, and I can’t make up for it. I can only try to be better.”

Rosemary knows, just from his slightly hunched shoulders and the thin note of regret in his voice, that Reginald is being as honest as possible with her right now. She glances from his face, to the discreetly sympathetic one of his wife-- thinks of Jaden, just in the other room, cavorting about watching Disney movies with two little girls-- thinks of the decisions that she, too, would have to make someday, in regards to a baby still too small to have facial features, perhaps only just big enough to have a heartbeat-- and takes a deep breath, lets it go. It’s easier than she thought it would be, and that’s enough to give her hope. She holds out a hand across the still-neatly-set dining room table, a belated olive-branch. “Thanks for doing what you can for him, Reg.”

He takes her hand in his, shakes it and holds on for a moment as his shoulders slump in visible relief. “No. Thank _you_ for coming back.”

Rosemary is spared the necessity of responding when a shouted, definitely-giggly chorus of ‘Hakuna Matata’ can be heard coming from the direction of the den. One of the voices is distinctly deeper and more grown-up than the other two, and all three of them look at each other before rising as a unit and heading over to investigate. They find Jaden hunched forward, munching popcorn on the couch, the younger girl Charlotte seated on his shoulders, and a pair of blue hair ribbons which most certainly had last been seen fastened around Katie’s braids tied around two tufts of his hair, creating a rather comical pigtail effect. Katie herself, hair loose and crimpy down her back, is seated next to him and eating popcorn at a much more enthusiastic rate. Jaden looks up at them with a wry smile, but makes no effort to dislodge either of his hangers-on off his person.

“This happened because they didn’t really want to pay attention to the part with the stampede and what happened to Mufasa,” he explains. “I guess doing my hair was the distraction they needed. Too bad it’s too short to do anything with, but I can’t complain, because this is real legit kettle corn that doesn’t come out of a microwave bag. It’s almost as good as Garrett’s Chicago Mix, which is unbeatable.”

“Daddy!” Charlotte scrambles down from her perch on Jaden’s shoulders and grins up at Reginald. “Jaden says that they have popcorn that’s a mix of cheese _and_ caramel! Can we get some? He told me about it ‘cause I didn’t want to watch the part where Simba’s daddy dies, and I told him at least my daddy’s alive and there are no wilder-beasts in Boston ‘cept at the zoo with the penguins, and they can’t run out and trample anyone, either.”

“All right, girls, it’s time to say goodnight to Aunt Rose and Uncle Jaden.” Susan steps in, and in a move both efficient and maternal, pulls the hair ribbons loose from Jaden’s head and tucks them into a pocket. “Who’s going to take a bath first?”

“Katie!” Charlotte blithely volunteers her sister as tribute, then dimples up at her parents. “I’m gonna marry Uncle Jaden when I grow up!”

“Silly, Uncle Jaden is already married to Aunt Rose,” Katie, with the long-suffering air of older siblings worldwide since the beginning of time, rolls her eyes before she, too, smiles. “Good night, Uncle Jaden and Aunt Rose.”

“But we can share! Just like Katie and I have to share the iPad and the Xbox!” One look from her mother, and she sighs deeply. “G’night, Uncle Jaden and Aunt Rose. You should come play again.”

Reginald promises his daughters that he will make sure to invite Aunt Rose and Uncle Jaden over again before they leave, then gives them both a hug and a kiss on the cheek goodnight before they follow Susan up the stairs. He turns to Jaden with an awkward sort of half-smile. “I hope they didn’t give you too much trouble.”

“None whatsoever. They’re good kids, and you should be proud of them. I didn’t want to tell the little one that Aunt Rose is not known for being super share-y, but no matter.” He aims a cheeky grin at Rosemary, who simply rolls her eyes.

Strangely, it’s a statement which causes the normally-reticent Reginald to chuff out a laugh. “I did remember always getting the chipped cup at the tea parties, not the pretty one with the pink flowers. I suppose some things never change.”

“And some things do,” Rosemary retorts, but not as abruptly as she could have done. “Anyway, we should get going. Early morning up ahead, hmm? Thanks for having us over. Dinner was delicious.”

“We willl have to do it again at some point.” It’s Susan who extends this invitation, all warm smiles and grace. “Or we could do brunch again, after church. Maybe we’ll find a place a bit nicer than a burger joint.”

They agree to do just that, perhaps the next weekend depending on how things went with Thomas Hawthorne’s return home, and Rosemary and Jaden take their leave. Rosemary’s hand finds Jaden’s over the gear shift of the car, and he gives it a squeeze. “Everything okay?”

“I’m glad you made friends tonight with the girls. Reg is a bit standoffish, I know, but I think he’s trying.”

“I’m getting practice in, just in case we have a little girl.” Even out of the corner of her eye, Rosemary can see his easy grin. “As for the long-suffering Reginald, he’s entitled to his opinions, including being suspicious of interlopers into the old-school New England mix that he’s known all his life. I definitely remember calling Kevin all sorts of asshole to his face, let alone behind his back, when he first started sniffing after Mandy. But, you know, he grew on me, too. A little bit. Like shower mold.”

“Oh, you love Kevin and you know it, even if he does support Penn State in the Big Ten,” Rosemary rolls her eyes. “Mind, I would not have expected him to get so worked up over sports like the rest of you plebeians. He always seemed so mild-mannered and quiet.” Kevin, the husband of Jaden’s sister Mandy, was a dignified, rather introverted tax attorney who had never made an appearance in public in anything less formal than a button-down, to Rosemary’s knowledge. What the super bubbly, almost-obnoxiously-friendly sales rep Mandy saw in him, aside from an admittedly chiselled jawline and a probable habit of helping little old ladies cross the street and so on, no one was quite sure.

They arrive back home after the short drive-- and in a way, perhaps with Jaden here, it’s easier to think of it as a home again, and Rosemary lets Phoebe fuss over her and ask all sorts of nosy questions about what was being served for dinner, and has a cup of chamomile tea before going upstairs to bed. The room is no longer familiar-- she’d put up some of her oldest belongings in storage, to make room for Jaden’s things, changed out the somewhat dreary Colonial-era artwork in their ornate frames on the wall for cheap but brighter prints of landscapes and still-lifes-- a lighthouse over a deep blue ocean, a garden lush with pale pink cherry blossoms in the springtime, a basket of plump winter fruit, ruby-red pomegranates and deep golden satsumas-- but in a way, it’s more true to the woman she is, now. The teddy bear from her childhood has been banished to a closet so that it would no longer have to bear witness to any types of private conversations or shenanigans. The vase on the windowsill currently holds several stems of fat, fluffy red peonies cut from the gardens early that morning.

She showers, brushes her teeth, and deigns to indulge in a quick cuddle with Jaden in that slightly-too-small bed, but falls asleep smiling.

**

Whatever Rosemary might have been expecting from the admittedly-impressive resume of the caregiver candidate, Gary Melvins, is nothing like the reality. She and Reginald walk into the hospital room where her father is staying, and find a young man, perhaps in his early thirties, already there, wearing bright teal scrubs and horn-rimmed glasses and an infectiously friendly smile on his face. “Oh it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Keaton, Miz Hawthorne. Do call me Gary Dean, would you? Everyone does.” His southern drawl couldn’t have been more pronounced had he been a gentleman caller of Scarlett O’Hara herself, and it’s enough to throw them off.

Thomas Hawthorne, however, is the only one irascible enough to comment on it. “You’re not from here, hmm?”

“Well, shucks, Governor, you caught me.” Rather than exhibiting any iota of offense, Gary Dean gives the old man a chagrined smile. “I’ve only been up North for a whole two months. My lovely wife Molly’s coming home to take over the family business-- O’Shea Jewelers. Her mama’s retiring. What was I to do but come with? It’s been real nice so far, but I reckon I’ll be singin’ a different tune come winter. Atlanta doesn’t get nearly so cold.”

“If you last here so long. This must be a huge departure for you. Not a horse farm in sight.”

“Oh, bless your heart, but I’ve never been on a horse farm either. I think that’s Kentucky, anyway, but the closest I’ve gotten to farming equipment would be the garden center at Walmart,” Gary Dean manages to say this with a completely straight face, even though his eyes glint in amusement behind the horn-rimmed glasses. “I’m as much of a city boy as you, I’m afraid. Now, we aren’t talkin’ about me, though, Governor. I’d like to get to know you a bit better. I’ve never been in the presence of a real live politician before, outside of watching a local senator give the commencement address at my college graduation, but that hardly counts, now does it?”

Somehow, in his own disarming, folksy way, Gary Dean finagles the conversation into the rather sensitive subject of Thomas Hawthorne’s outpatient care needs, and makes even the prospect of extensive physical therapy and rehabilitation seem a bit less grim as he shares anecdotes of patients he’d seen and dealt with, managing to coax and flatter the old man into a decently good humour while explaining what to expect in the next several months. Rosemary exchanges a glance with Reginald, and sees that he’s equally impressed-- certainly, it is no easy feat to get the better of Thomas Hawthorne, and both of them know it well.

“And so I’ll probably be staying on over there, live-in, for the first few months, at least until you can get used to things, and depending on the progress with the physical therapy and such, we can work out a schedule. We’ll have you used to a set of wheels by the time that nasty northern winter hits, not to fret.”

The meeting is shorter and easier than Rosemary would have expected, and even as Reginald calls the house to make the final arrangements, she pulls Gary Dean aside. “You’re really okay dealing with him? He is a cranky, demanding, controlling old man.”

“Oh, sugar, he’s just a bit ornery, and who can blame him?” Rosemary is quite sure that she had never heard her father described using that particular adjective before, but it fits so well that she giggles behind her hand. Gary Dean shrugs, and smiles kindly. “I’m used to it, ma’am. He couldn’t possibly be worse than my own sainted mama when my sister up and ran off to get married to a Russian man named Dmitri and moved clean out of the country with him. Why, she was fixin’ to give Courtney Ann a piece of her mind, and I had to tell her to just pray to Jesus and hope for the best. It was a good year later before she forgave them, I think. Mama sure can hold a grudge when she puts her mind to it.”

“A whole year, hmm?” Gary Dean, Rosemary decides, is insidiously easy to talk to, and that, perhaps as much as his training and education, must account for all the accolades from his references. “I haven’t seen my father in ten years. Is that bad?”

“Well, gosh, I sure am not in a place to judge anyone. He’s glad to see you, though, so I’m going to do like I told my mama, and pray to Jesus and hope for the best. We’ll have a good time, and your father will be fine, Miz Hawthorne. Does he have any sort of workload, though, that we’ll have to schedule in with the recovery process?”

“Reginald would be the one to ask, but from all accounts, he’s passing on the reins to his Lieutenant Governor, and she’ll be able to at least handle it for the remainder of the term, which ends in another year. I don’t know if he plans to run for reelection, but maybe that’s a bridge we’ll cross when we get to it.”

“I’m fine with that. Now, Mr. Keaton’s showed me a few pictures of the remodeling done at the house, and may I just say, you two have done a fine job, and it’ll make my life a heckuva lot easier. Like I said, I’ll likely have to be live-in at first. Reckon you’ll be able to find a spot for me?”

“There are two spare rooms, but they’re both upstairs. The staff and guests have their wing, on the opposite side from the family wing. You can probably take your pick of which one you’d like, but… would that be all right? He’ll be staying downstairs. I figured that was easiest, since…”

“Oh, that’s perfectly fine. We can just set up a baby monitor. It’s the easiest way to know when he needs help during the overnight hours.”

_A baby monitor. A crib and a car seat, child-proof gates and cabinets and electric outlets. A freaking Ob-Gyn appointment._ She hadn’t put much thought into any of those things yet, and the guilt of it strikes her hard and sudden. Maybe something of that worry shows in her face, because Gary Dean gives her another kind smile and a pat on the shoulder. “Now, don’t you worry, Miz Hawthorne. We’ll get your daddy settled in, and once you see that he’s gonna be fine, you’ll surely sleep easier at night, too, or at least take care of yourself and not be so stressed out.”

She nods, and lets Reginald finish setting up, and makes a beeline for her room the moment she gets home. Jaden’s there, shamelessly reading what looked to be an ancient copy of _Seventeen_ Magazine that he must have fished out from the basket under her desk.

“You know, these embarrassing story submissions in here are pretty damn traumatizing. I thought I’d certainly seen my share as a high school teacher, but there are just so many ways that the mix of crushes and menstruation mishaps can go wrong in the worst circumstances.” He sets the magazine down, stands up and kisses her. “How did it go?”

“The caregiver’s a character, all right, but I think he’ll be a good thing for my dad.” Rosemary lets herself lean against him for a moment. “Didn’t take any shit the old man was trying to dish, but was really polite about it. Dad’s coming home tomorrow afternoon, and he’ll be moving in tonight around eight o’clock to set up anything which needs to be set up beforehand. And supposedly one of the things that needs to be set up is a baby monitor, which seems a bit obvious now that I think about it, so he can hear my dad if he needs anything overnight, but I didn’t think of it until he mentioned it, and I’m _pregnant!_” Rosemary buries her face in her hands. “I haven’t even called Dr. Anderson. Let alone think of all the stuff that we’re going to need to do once we get back home. I’m so not ready for this.”

“You’re going to be wonderful, and Dr. Anderson would tell you the same.” Jaden kisses her temple, then tilts her face up to kiss her mouth. “It’s okay to be nervous. I am, too.”

“You’re so good at dealing with kids,” Rosemary mutters into his collar, clenching her fingers around handfuls of his shirt. “I’m generally the woman who dreads being handed someone else’s baby because I’m afraid I’ll drop it and break it. It’s not exactly like I have the greatest role models for parents, or any experience with siblings, or…”

“But you are smart. Kind, even though you try to hide it sometimes. Careful. Hardworking. Our son or daughter will be blessed to come from you, learn from you.” Jaden punctuates his words with light kisses, and she finally relaxes in his arms. “You should probably call Dr. Anderson, though. Make sure she’s going to be around for the birth.”

“Yeah. She usually takes a vacation around Christmastime to visit her in-laws in Europe with her husband, but if my estimations are correct, the baby’s not due until about February. Happy Valentine’s Day to us, I guess.” She manages a crooked smile, and Jaden returns it with a full smile of his own.

“Well, I definitely won’t have an excuse to forget that holiday ever again, hmm?”

“I don’t think you ever did. Not that I’m hugely into it or anything, considering it’s an…”

“... Overpriced Hallmark Holiday, yes I know.” Jaden chuckles and kisses her nose. “Well. I’ll leave you to chit-chat with the good Doctor Amy Anderson and see if I can coax Phoebe into arranging for us to have Yankee pot roast again for dinner. You New Englanders do that dish like us Midwesterners do cheesy potato-based casseroles, and it’s kind of awesome.”

**

Dr. Amy Anderson answers, on the first ring, despite the fact that it’s quite certainly past office hours. She’s a little surprised to hear that Rosemary is in Boston, but cordially asks her about her trip, inquiring whether she’d visited a few of the local places. When Rosemary expresses her surprise to the OB-GYN that the latter seemed so familiar with the area, Amy laughs quietly, and reminds Rosemary that she had, in fact, graduated from Harvard Medical School before moving out to the greater Chicago area. “But we are not here to discuss your trip, I take it? Is something the matter? If I recall correctly, there weren’t any issues with your last routine check-up.”

“I’m pregnant. I want to say about eight or nine weeks. I’m here because my dad got into a bad car accident and so I’m dealing with that and I thought I was just late because, y’know, of stress and such. But then I started getting nauseous even though I’d barely eat anything in the mornings, but I still didn’t think anything of it until we went to paint a room and the smell of the paint almost laid me out. So then I did some calculations, then I went and took a pregnancy test, and… I don’t even know how long it’ll be before I can get back home, and… what should I do?”

Amy’s laugh bubbles up as gently and melodiously as the tinkle of running water. “Well, for starters, take a deep breath. Congratulations, by the way. Considering that you would be considered a low-risk pregnancy, and both you and your husband seem to live healthy and stable lifestyles, I think you can get away with a few more weeks before needing to book an appointment with me. If you want to have someone local check you out, I can recommend someone, of course. Would you like me to?”

“I… I’m okay with waiting until I get back. Which is hopefully soon. Things are slowly settling down over here, finally, but I just don’t even know what to expect, you know? I was an only child, and my mother was dead before I even hit puberty. I distinctly remember having to learn about the intricacies of tampon usage from the housekeeper, which subsequently led to her giving me The Talk, which-- let me tell you-- is possibly my most embarrassing memory of my entire eighth grade year. I don’t know anything about how to take care of a baby, or what are the different things I myself should do or not do aside from obvious things like smoking and drinking, and I wouldn’t even know who to ask!”

“Well, if you have any specific questions, I’d be happy to answer them for you,” Amy tells her matter-of-factly. “That being said, you’ll be fine. Much as I hate to admit it, women were successfully birthing and rearing babies well before my field even existed in any official capacity. Plus, like I said, you’re healthy and low-risk. As far as how to take care of a baby… you’ll learn. I felt the same way, you know, when I had my daughter.”

“Oh?” Rosemary had known in passing that the pretty, fresh-faced Dr. Anderson was the mother of a toddler girl of around two or three, but they’d never really discussed it before.

“I felt like I was in the same boat as you, you see. I was a latchkey kid-- my mother, before she retired, was the head of Pediatric Surgery at Johns Hopkins Children’s Center. I could go days without seeing her because of her workload. Dad left when I was a baby, and existed as a monthly postcard and check in the mail. Trust me when I say that when I found myself pregnant with Shannon, I was in full on panic mode myself, even if I logically knew that everything would likely turn out fine. Zane had to talk me out of overthinking the situation a few times, but all’s well that ends well. And now she’s a miniature diva who takes after her father and takes far too much enjoyment in asking the question ‘Why?’ when I try to tell her to do anything, and will absolutely try to stick anything she can find and grab into her mouth, but I wouldn’t change it for the world.”

It’s perhaps not the talk that Rosemary would have expected out of her OB-GYN, with whom she’d always had a friendly rapport despite the admittedly necessary-evil-status of such aspects of their association as annual Pap smears, but never an actual heart-to-heart conversation. “Okay. So, I’ll give you a call in a week, see if I can set up an appointment when I return. If it looks like I have to be here for another month, you can recommend me someone local.”

“Sounds like a plan. Congratulations again, by the way. For now, avoid eating any undercooked foods such as runny eggs or sushi, and get a good prenatal vitamin-- something with Folic Acid. Get as much sleep as you can, and avoid household chores that involve heavy lifting or toxic chemicals. If the nausea is really bad, sometimes B6 vitamins help, or ginger tea.”

Rosemary notes down everything, and Amy promises to answer any more questions she might have when she calls next. “Thanks.”

“Not a problem, and like I said, you’ll be fine. I look forward to seeing you when you get back.”

**

Thomas Hawthorne is brought back home on a fine day in late June, and Gary Dean is installed as an addition to the household that same evening. Within the space of a week, the latter had proven himself more than a match for even the cantankerous old man’s moods and controlling tendencies, dealing with any hard-headed behaviour with a cheerful, polite Southern charm not wholly devoid of sarcasm, and furthermore had ingratiated himself into the good graces of all of the household staff outside of a determinedly reticent Phoebe. Rosemary knew just the extent that Gary Dean had gotten in with them when a mere two days into his stay, chicken fried steak and lemon meringue pie made an appearance at the dinner table. Gary Dean was effusive in his praise of the cook, and stubbornly solicitous of an equally stubborn Phoebe, plying her with compliments and small-talk and, on one occasion, flowers. However, behind the drawling voice and coke-bottle glasses, he had a mind as sharp as a bear trap. Every minute of every day was meticulously designed to streamline and facilitate the old man’s recovery and rehabilitation down to the most painstaking of details. No task was too insignificant or too strenuous, from helping him bathe to contacting the DMV to get a handicapped parking sticker to moving heavy furniture around to better accommodate the dimensions of the new wheelchair.

Perhaps under Gary Dean’s firm but adroit guidance, or perhaps with all the extra people in the house serving as a distraction, but the transition is surprisingly not as difficult as Rosemary would have imagined. Certainly, her father is very aggravated most of the time with his lack of mobility and the boredom which comes from involuntary levels of inactivity for health reasons, but he puts up with quiet evenings playing checkers with, if little grace, at least a disgruntled sort of tolerance. He still grills Jaden about his past, his family, his job and prospects and ambitions, but it always seems to irritate her more than it does Jaden himself. Indeed, the latter answers all questions, no matter how impertinent, with an easygoing sort of acceptance, but it’s not until the last day of the month-- the first official evening that Gary Dean feels comfortable to take off-- that the two most important men in Rosemary’s life seem to reach a real understanding.

Gary Dean leaves in the afternoon with a neatly written list for Rosemary delineating what to do for her father for every single hour that he’d be gone, and up until about nine o’clock, it had been followed to a tee. They’re sitting in the parlour, half-heartedly watching a game show after dinner, and Jaden’s seated at her side still nursing what’s left of his beer. At a commercial break, he gets up to pour Rosemary some juice, and politely asks her father if he’d like anything.

“What I’d like is two fingers of the 25-year Pappy Van Winkle up on the sideboard, but that’s too much to ask, I’m sure,” Thomas says with not a little aspersion. But before he can say anything else, Jaden simply shrugs, fetches a rocks glass, and walks over to the bottle in question.

“You can’t give him that! What will Gary Dean say?”

“Gary Dean would say something about that sure bein’ a darn expensive bottle of whiskey, but babe, let the man have his one glass of Bourbon in the safety of his own home.” Jaden pours a little less than the requested two fingers, and gives Rosemary a wry smile. “He’s not had much to be happy about lately, you know?”

“And a sip of over-priced booze is going to make him happy, you think?”

“More like it’s something he now knows can’t be taken for granted.” There’s a world of meaning in Jaden’s blue eyes as they move from her face, to her father’s, and then back again. Everyone in the room knows that he’s not simply referring to the whiskey, but he doesn’t make it a big deal. “Here you go, sir. Enjoy. I’m sure even in a small amount, it’s worth all you paid for it.” He hands the old man the glass of Bourbon, then hands Rosemary her apple juice, and sits down just as the show comes back on.

Thomas doesn’t say anything to either of them that night, but the next day, he no longer asks Jaden probing questions about himself, even when the opportunity arises.

**

June feeds into July, and it had been the annual tradition ever since she was a little girl that her father would open up the family beach house in an old and affluent neighbourhood on Martha’s Vineyard, and invite perhaps twenty or so guests for an annual clambake on the beach for 4th of July, followed by a fireworks show. It had been a tradition upheld for many generations, though by the time the mantle of tradition had passed to Thomas, the clambake dinner was catered and formal as opposed to a several-hours-long ordeal of gathering seaweed and tarps and whatnot. The guest list does not change, however-- it’s no more than three or four families as venerable and wealthy as his own, all of whom own neighbouring estates in the area. This year, post near-fatal car accident, her father is still surprisingly determined to host the clambake, and his determination sends the staff into a tizzy of activity-- tidying up and readying the house to accommodate not only dinner guests but a newly-handicapped owner, calling in vendors and caterers and a chartered private ferry, sending out invitations. Reginald and Susan, whose families have long been on the invite list, roll up their proverbial sleeves and pitch in.

Rosemary stays out of it for the most part, though she does make a quiet trip to the Macy’s Department Store to buy a bathing suit and cover-up which does not highlight the slight, barely-noticeable swell in her abdomen, as well as a few suitable dresses which would pass muster amongst this crowd. Jaden keeps her company, tolerantly holding her bags and accepting her decree that he must not make an appearance unshaven or wearing any shirt that wasn’t a button-up unless out in the water. Somewhat to her surprise, an invitation even gets sent out to Gary Dean’s wife, Molly, though her background would certainly be considered a bit too “Southie” and new-money to fit in well with the others, but she RSVPs back graciously enough, and when she does show up the day of, they’re all collectively surprised to see a very pretty, blue-eyed redhead wearing a preppy blue sweater over a white summer dress, looking very much like the cheerleader to her husband’s band geek with her sunny smile and sapphire stud earrings. It’s discovered within moments that Susan’s engagement ring had been purchased from the O’Shea family’s jewelry store, and soon enough, Reginald’s daughters, along with Molly and Susan as the two most sociable women present in the group, keep up an active stream of conversation, with Gary Dean and Jaden assisting here and there, and what could have been an awkward trip out is smooth and almost enjoyable aside from Rosemary’s queasiness on the water. She manages to keep down what food she’d eaten, though, and is cautiously optimistic that perhaps the worst of the morning sickness is coming to an end.

The dinner that evening goes off without a hitch-- certainly, Rosemary is subjected to more than one curious look from the guests who’ve not seen her since her teenage years. But no one is so indelicate as to mention it, and she finds that the polite small talk that she’d learned as a girl has not changed much since she’d grown up to be a woman. The food is fancy but traditional, and by the time the fireworks display illuminates the sky, she finds herself cuddled up to Jaden for warmth on a beach gone chilly with nightfall. Not far away, Thomas is seated in his wheelchair where the sand meets the edge of the pavement, with Reg’s daughters listening to him as he recounts some story or another from American history which should by all rights be boring-- perhaps the Boston Tea Party, or the ride of Paul Revere-- and yet, he is using all the oratorial powers that he’d amassed in a lifetime of politics to make that a thrilling tale indeed. The girls, clearly comfortable with him, are listening, wide-eyed, and ask for another as soon as he’s done. Indeed, he’s halfway through a probably-mostly-true biography of George Washington when Susan walks over to tell her daughters that it’s time to bid Uncle Tommy goodnight, it’s time for bed. The girls hug her father from both sides, and to Rosemary’s surprise, he smiles, readily hugs them back, and it brings a sharp and unexpected twinge to her heart. He had never, in her recollection, been a demonstrative parent to her. She didn’t even know that he’d had it in him.

They stay the night at the beach house, where Rosemary and Jaden are shown into a guest room with fewer memories and a bigger bed. Perhaps out of habit now, they still sleep in it huddled together, right in the middle. Rosemary eschews her usual sleep shirt for one of Jaden’s t-shirts, which is not nearly as snug on her chest and abdomen, and lies awake for quite a while after Jaden’s breath evens out in sleep. She knows, though it’s not yet been said outright, that her time here in Massachusetts is coming to an end. Her father, though paralyzed, would live well enough for the rest of his life-- possibly keeping a hand in politics, possibly not. She even missed her own home, with its probably-somewhat-overgrown-now lawn, and the pots of red geraniums and purple pansies that she kept on the little patio. She missed going up to the city to catch up with Monica-- who perhaps by now was shacking up in all types of ways with Nico, having been left to her own devices without any responsible adult supervision and all. There’s a peace now, but there were still words unsaid, a need for closure. Independence Day for the nation had just come and gone, but very soon, she’d need to address her own, personal one. It’s quite possible that her father still doesn’t forgive her, or understand her reasoning. And yet, after everything that’s happened, knowing that perhaps someday, she’d be at a crossroads with her own child, it doesn’t seem so important after all that he see things her way or apologize.

**

The next morning, Rosemary wakes up feeling a bit queasy, but early enough to watch the sunrise. She puts on a sweater for warmth, and quietly makes her way to the beach, and is surprised to see her father out there already, seated in his wheelchair, looking out at the tranquil, gold-flecked Atlantic ocean as the wavelets lap at the shore. The scent of salt in the brisk air helps with the nausea, and she takes a seat next to him. “You’re up early.”

“Habit. I told Gary Dean to go for a jog and leave me be, so he doesn’t find it necessary to talk my damned ear off this early in the morning.” He glances at her, and a queer, wistful sort of smile plays at the corner of his mouth. “You were always a bit of an early riser yourself, Rosie. Thankfully not the rowdy, jumping on the bed on Christmas morning type, unlike what Reg says about his girls.”

“You seem close to them, though.” It shames her that she feels just the faintest twinge of envy, that she can’t quite keep it out of her voice when she says it. She is a twenty-nine-year-old woman, with a husband and a career and a home and a baby on the way, and yet a small, quiet inner voice can’t quite be silenced in its malcontent. “Katie and Charlotte, I mean. I can’t blame you. They’re sweet girls. Charming and personable. They adore Uncle Tommy.”

“They are. They do.” Thomas clears his throat once, then twice, but can’t seem to get rid of the hint of hoarseness-- dry sea air, or perhaps regret. “I remember you as a little girl, believe it or not. You were always so quiet, but determined. Good, but independent. I didn’t know what to do with you half the time, aside from be both proud and sad at the same time that you had figured everything out without much input from me at all. I know I worked too much, and wasn’t there when you needed me to be.”

She doesn’t try to contradict him, even as his eyes-- usually so piercing and hard, glimmer with unshed tears. But she doesn’t say anything which would rub salt into the wound, and lets him continue, which he does after taking a deep, shuddering breath. “I didn’t do right by you, Rosie. And maybe that’s why I try to coddle Reg’s kids a little, knowing that their parents would always make sure to do right by them anyway, and that they’d have the support, the guidance needed, in case I did something wrong. I didn’t do right by my only daughter, and by now, it’s too late. You’re a fine young woman living your best life with a man who is almost worthy of you, and I had no part in that, but I do think-- and hope-- that you’ll be happy. I just wish that I had a chance for a do-over with someone other than Reg’s girls.”

The water breaks over the sandbar in a wave, gentle and peaceful. The apology and closure comes just as gently and peacefully, as though the storms in the past had never come and devastated them both. Rosemary takes a deep breath, and out of the corner of her eye, sees Jaden walking towards them, golden hair shining in the early morning sunlight. She smiles, and stands, and lays one hand over her belly in that age-old instinctive gesture. “You might have that chance yet for that do-over, dad. Just wait a few months.”

His eyes are blank for only a moment before they sharpen in comprehension, and then crinkle up in a smile not nearly as polished as one would expect out of a politician as he holds out a hand towards her. Rosemary feels Jaden’s hand, a warm, familiar weight on the small of her back, and leans back against him, and finds it in herself, after all these years, to smile back, and reach her own hand to meet her dad’s halfway as the sun rises high over the ocean on this brand new day.


End file.
